Fate on the Wind
by Galatyn Renner
Summary: BoromirOFC Bookverse Try it, you'll like it. New plot information has been added to Chapter Four. Chapter Thirty-Eight is up!
1. Prologue

Fate On the Wind

by Galatyn Renner

For all who dream of Middle Earth.

Prologue

_With water from the stream Galadriel filled the basin to the brim, and breathed on it, and when the water was still again, she spoke. 'Here is the Mirror of Galadriel,' she said. 'I have brought you here so that you may look in it, if you will.'_

_The air was very still, and the dell was dark, and the Elf-lady beside him was tall and pale. 'What shall we look for, and what shall we see?' asked Frodo, filled with awe._

'_Many things I can command the Mirror to reveal,' she answered, 'and to some I can show what they desire to see. But the Mirror will also show things unbidden, and those are often more strange and profitable than things which we wish to behold. What you will see, if you leave the Mirror free to work, I cannot tell. For it shows things that were, and things that are, and things that yet may be. But which it is that he sees, even the wisest cannot always tell. Do you wish to look?'_

_Frodo did not answer._

'_And you?' she said, turning to Sam. 'For this is what you folk would call magic, I believe; though I do not understand clearly what they mean; and they seem to use the same word of the deceits of the Enemy. But this, if you will, is the magic of Galadriel. Did you not say that you wished to see Elf-magic?'_

'_I did,' said Sam, trembling a little between fear and curiosity. 'I'll have a peep, Lady, if you're willing._

'_And I'd not mind a glimpse of what's going on at home,' he said in an aside to Frodo. 'It seems a terrible long time that I've been away. But there, like as not I'll only see the stars, or something that I won't understand.'_

'_Like as not,' said the Lady with a gentle laugh. 'But come, you shall look and see what you may. Do not touch the water!'_

--The Fellowship of the Ring


	2. Moving Water

Chapter One

Moving Water

Shivering in the February air, I ducked into the booth. Cold air changed to dim warmth, and I wondered what I'd gotten myself into.

"The Carnival's in town this weekend, why don't you go?" Amy had said, pushing my jacket and a ten spot into my hand. She was very sweet, showing me out the door, but what I heard behind her words made my heart ache. What she had meant, but not said: get out of the house so I can work in peace, and stop oscillating between the computer and your pennywhistle, because you're driving me mad.

She couldn't see that I coped by playing non-tunes and writing bad poetry like she coped by cleaning and cooking. For identical twins, we were very different. She still lived at home because Dad couldn't take care of himself and Mom was, let's see, one year, two months, and three days in the ground. I lived at home because, at nineteen, I was a dissolute whelp who would neither pick a college major nor force herself to join the Army.

So it was with perverse pleasure that I had noticed where my feet had led me. '_**Madame Alatar knows all and tells all**_', the sign in front had proclaimed. I snorted again, thinking of it, but the woman seated at the card table in front of me looked like no Carnival fortune-teller I had ever seen. She lacked the garish gypsy dress and jewelry. Also missing was the crystal ball, I had thought a prerequisite of her trade. Instead, she wore a blue caftan and bent over a silver bowl filled with clear water. It stood in bright contrast on the scarred surface of the table.

"Please, sit." Her voice was not the cackle I expected. It was soft, and deep for a woman's.

I sat carefully in the metal chair, and it wobbled treacherously. She pushed the basin toward me, which caused the water to stop moving. _Odd_, I thought. Even stranger, it did not reflect her stern face and straw-colored hair as she blew on the surface.

She looked up, and I expected her to make mention, at last, of crossing her palm with silver. Or green paper, as the case may be.

The water rippled only when she drew back, ebbing and flowing like no contained water should. As vague panic grew in my mind, she said, "Do not be afraid. See what may be seen in the Mirror."

The silvery bottom of the bowl winked up at me briefly before roiling, storm-gray clouds obscured it, moving _under_ the smooth surface of the water.

"I see . . .thunderclouds, but nothing else." Not wanting to think about how odd even this was, I sat back and pressed the heels of my hands into my sandpapery eyes.

She gave a little laugh. "The storm is your heart, my child, for your path does not lie in this realm. _Do not touch the water_."

The last bit didn't make sense. Why would I want to touch that unnatural water? I removed my hands. The clouds were gone; the water was clear again. Clear and perfect. Perfect . . . .

'_Do not touch the water.' _

What did she mean, _realm_? In my realm, water didn't work like that.

'_Do not touch the water.'_

I wanted to, oh, I wanted to. A thirst grew inside me to know what it felt like. Was it cool or warm to the touch?

'_Do not touch the water.'_

I put out my right hand, and she smiled lightly, not going to stop me. My fingers hovered and then dropped. The liquid sheathed them before I pulled free, staring at my hand.

Mercury, or something like it, dripped onto the table. I wondered if she really had water in there. Reflexively, I raised my hand to my lips. It _was_ water, pure, sweet, perfect water. The way it should taste, but never does. I would have drunk the basinful had not a blackness grown behind my eyes, wrapping my body. Slipping off the stool, I fell what seemed like a great distance onto a cushion of soft grass.

Her voice was in my mind, cloaking me like the darkness. _'So I was right, my child. Your path does not lie in this realm. You touched the water.'_


	3. Another Realm

Chapter Two

Another Realm

I woke to a woman bending over me. Tall and fair, she wore a flowing white dress that shone only slightly less than the golden hair that fell in waves past her waist. I stared up at her, bewildered, and possibly the stupidest thing I had ever uttered popped out of my mouth: "Where am I, and who-" The answers appeared from the back of my mind, as if I had known them forever, and forced themselves out of my mouth. "My lady Galadriel." Inexplicably, I felt like curtseying. Looking down, I found I had the clothes to do it, too. A dress similar to hers had replaced my sweatshirt, jeans, and hiking boots. I was barefoot.

I glanced up as the Lady began to speak, her voice soft and full of power. "You come to my woods in a curious way, but there will be time to speak of this later." She helped me to my feet with a strong, slim hand.

Light came from everywhere and nowhere all around us. I looked up at the giant golden trees, and knew their names: _Mellyrn._ "The spring of all Middle Earth pales beside the winter of Lorien, lady." The syntax and the compulsion came again from the back of my head.

"And the words of a stranger may not be counted fair until their true purpose is known," she countered gently, leading me away from a pedestal on which stood a silver basin. I did not want to think about what it contained, so I followed, or attempted to. My foot caught on the hem of my dress, and I went sprawling.

Galadriel watched me untangle myself, a small smile on her lips. "Your attire suits neither your spirit nor your purpose, daughter of the earth. My ladies will find you something better." Somehow, I didn't think she meant shorts, which I really would not have minded just then.

She led me up to a great platform enclosed completely by leafy branches. Half a dozen women lounged about it on divans and benches, two reading, three spinning, and one playing softly on a flute. They wore flowing pastels, and their timeless faces were achingly beautiful. Rising as one, all six came forward when we entered.

Galadriel turned to me. "My ladies will give you all that you need or desire, child, for your road is long and your errand hard. My work lies elsewhere now. Namarrie." She turned back down the stairs and disappeared.

"The Lady speaks truth," said the one in lavender, "and the clothes of a maiden will not aid you." _Good, they didn't have a problem providing me with pants._ She half-turned away from me and brushed her long honey hair over her right shoulder. I suddenly felt an overwhelming need to sit down.

I had seen her ears, and what my head had known all along collided into my heart: they were Elves. _Elves_ was the wrong word. It conjured up images of small men in green hats making toys. I was among the Galadhrim, and in truth they were the people of light. Light of foot and light of speech and light-bearing. I sunk onto one of the carved couches and breathed deeply, feeling ugly.

My personal appearance had never worried me before. I have dishwater brown hair and dishwater green eyes, and I'm too tall, but I'd never really been overwhelmed by it, except for that time last year when I'd dyed my hair orange. Now, however, the contrast washed over me.

The ladies in green and yellow had begun to lay out clothes, beautiful things that looked strong and soft, too. Tunics that were not baggy shirts, but closefitting garments that hung to just above the knee came first. There were brightly colored inner ones of light silky stuff with long sleeves, and short sleeved outer tunics that looked like leather but weren't, in more muted shades. Trousers more like leggings than pants and the most beautiful pair of russet red boots I had ever seen followed shortly. I knew everything would fit perfectly. The thought was oddly calming.

Suffice it to say that they got me dressed in two tunics, russet over copper, faintly reddish leggings, and the boots. I walked back and forth a few times, getting used to the delicious feel of Elvish garments.

The ladies glided away after I thanked them, leaving me alone with a bag half full of clothing similar to that which I wore. They had packed it while I was dressing, so as not to embarrass me.

I swung the knapsack up onto my shoulder. As I did, the wind changed, perhaps signaling great things begun. It whispered through the great trees, bringing with it the smell of . . . bacon? I sniffed again. _Yes, definitely bacon. _Not an Elvish food, to my mind. I followed the scent down the stairs, wondering vaguely if I should ask someone's permission.


	4. Concerning Hobbits

Chapter Three

Concerning Hobbits 

As my feet left the last wrought step, voices from the same direction joined the smell. Following both my ears and nose now, I passed through a small cluster of trees that were not mellyrn on my way up the steep slope. Nearby, four small people were gathered around a smaller campfire. One had a saucepan in one hand and a fork in the other. I assumed this to be the source of the bacon aroma.

One of the group looked up and, as he was facing in my direction and I was out of the trees, he saw me. I froze. "Look, Sam, someone's smelled your cooking." The words carried.

The back of my mind told me nothing about these four, so I walked a little closer. "It is true, I did-" The words coming out of my mouth were not the ones I was thinking. I knew, somehow, that they meant the same, but they were not English. I thought consciously about the sounds of the thoughts and tried again. They came out correctly. "Smell the bacon, that is," I added to the rephrasing of my first words.

"You're not an Elf!" the one with the saucepan said, half accusing.

I met his eyes. "When did I ever say I was one?"

He went scarlet and nearly dropped the pan of sizzling bacon. "Sam!" One of the others took it out of his hand. I noticed the bacon was exactly how I liked it, just cooked, halfway between gooey and crisp.

"Sorry, Mr. Frodo," 'Sam' said to the current saucepan holder. And then, to me: "What are you, then? You look like an Elf. You speak Elvish."

So it was Elvish! "I'm as human as you are." I looked down at pointed ears half-hidden by curly hair and tough, bare brown feet. "Or perhaps not."

The smallest of the small whatevers piped up. "Oh, we're not humans. We're hobbits." He sat back, looking very pleased with himself. "I'm Peregrin Took and that's Meriadoc Brandybuck and Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee." He pointed at the one who had first noticed me, the one who held the frying pan, and the one he had taken it from.

Sam was the most heavy-set of the uniformly tubby creatures, but his was more muscle than fat. I would have call Merry the handsomest, for he had the angelic face of a born mischief-maker, as did Pippin, whose pointed chin was perpetually underneath a grin. But my eyes dwelt of Frodo longest. He had an edge, a haunted, eldritch quality, as if not quite in this world all the time. "And what may a hobbit be, Peregrin Took?"

"I'm usually called Pippin. Most hobbits look something like us, and they live in the Shire, which is west of here, and, well, that's all, I suppose."

Hobbits. Well, you learn something new every day. "May I join you?"

"Of course. Sam, is the bacon done?" Frodo peered at it dubiously and gave the pan back.

"Just about, Mr. Frodo."

I eased my almost six foot frame onto the mossy ground, spreading my hands over the fire. "No bacon for me, thank you."

"Just as well. It was about to go off, anyway. We'd carried it all the way from Rivendell," he added in an undertone for my benefit.

"Pippin!" Frodo gave him a look, having overheard.

"Well it was. And we had," Pippin persisted.

"That won't stop you eating your share, or more, Mr. Pippin." Sam obviously knew the hobbit's habits. My laughter at this stopped abruptly when another figure appeared beside me.

4


	5. The Return of the Ranger & A New World

Chapter Four

The Return of the Ranger & A New World

The newcomer ignored me, and took the opportunity to ask, "Where did you get that wood, Sam?" I occupied myself by looking at his boots and thinking how much nicer mine were.

"I found it on the ground, Strider." Sam was not quite cowering.

_I _looked up. And up. I thought of myself as tall; this man dwarfed me by nearly three inches. Most of the height was leg, too. Lean but broad-shouldered, he wore white that did not suit him and stubble that had gotten out of hand about a month ago without quite managing to be a beard. It now threatened to overwhelm the lower half of his rugged face.

His gray eyes met mine and I knew, for a moment, that he saw my heart, the heart of an outsider in his world. "My lady." He offered a small bow, really no more than an inclination of the head.

I attempted to stand, tripped on a tree root, and would have gone sprawling, but his hand caught my flailing one and hauled me up. His grip was as strong as I'd expected.

I got my feet under me, and he let go, our faces about a foot apart. "Thank you." My turn for the small nod. "My lord." My tongue's unfortunate tendency to channel whatever my brain supplies seemed to have been aggravated by my new surroundings.

His eyes flicked over me again like a deer before it runs. But when he spoke, his voice was calm. "The favor of the Lady walks with you. I would know your name."

"Firiel is my name." My head offered it up, with the knowledge that it meant _mortal-woman_. I liked it, for its anonymousness and its lyricism.

"Firiel." He tasted the name, searching my eyes again. I looked back, trying to keep my expression blank.

The hobbits, meanwhile, were watching us intently from the ground, and both of us realized it at the same time. It was a bit funny, but I didn't feel like laughing. And something smelled strange. "Sam, your bacon's burning." Saying it gave me a chance to look away from _Strider_ while Sam snatched the meat out of the fire, poking it with the fork. By the time I glanced back, our visitor had taken himself off.

I sat back down as ingloriously as I had gotten up. The hobbits were intimately involved in dividing the bacon and did not notice me. I watched them squabble for a moment, feeling generally ill-used, and then got up again to go in search of peace, and somewhere my overwhelmed head could think.

I felt confusion, but not panic, for the atmosphere of Lorien would not allow it. I could only keep thinking. The personality piggybacking on my mind felt like the fortuneteller, Madame Alatar. She was still feeding me information, downloading skills and knowledge directly onto my cerebral cortex. Suddenly I remembered things that I had never see, places I had never been, people that I had never met. Images and data passed in front of my eyes and then disappeared, but I knew they were still somewhere inside my head, ready when I needed them.

Reeling, I sat down hard on the bank of a little creek, breathing through my nose to retain my composure. I was not frightened, though I could not remember going out the other side of scared. I concentrated on simply existing.

'Keep thinking, honey, always keep thinking.' Those were my mother's words, though I had not considered them since before her death. I thought, and inspiration came, after a long while. A mirror had gotten me here. Perhaps another could take me back.

Forcing myself to stand, I retraced my steps back to the grove where I had first met the Lady, scarcely noticing the beauty of the Wood around me. The silver basin was still where I had seen it. Filling it from a pitcher I found nearby, I stood over it, eyes squinched shut.

I counted to three, and then opened them. The water did not even ripple; I could see straight to the silvery bottom of the basin. Disappointed, I plunged both hands into the water. Nothing happened. It was wet. It was also perfectly normal.

'Do not do this thing.' The words ripped though me, and I staggered backwards, amazed at the fury of the voice in my mind. 'You have been given a chance,' it continued, 'use it. Go now.'

I went, thinking, 'Here I am. Here I must stay.' I did not cry, for a hope had welled within me, springing from the back of my head. No one knew me here. I had no family, but I did have the favor of the Lady Galadriel. I had been clothed by the Elves, and I had seen hobbits. This was Middle Earth, my brave new world. The axis of my life was swinging and I knew not how or where, only that somehow, I had lived to come to this place.


	6. Boromir

Chapter Five

Boromir

I walked, reveling in the springy grass beneath my new boots and the taste of the air around me, until I heard voices, and the twang of bowstrings. An archery contest was in progress, more of a Robin Hood affair than something modern.

I had no intention of competing because, while I'm a fair shot with a compound bow, I can't draw most longbows big enough for me. It didn't help that I could barely see what they were aiming at. So I sat down behind everyone to watch from under a tree.

After a moment's observation, it became clear that I had arrived during the elimination rounds. One by one, with good temper or ill, the elves withdrew, either stalking off or ranging themselves around me to watch.

The last two contestants resembled each other as the sun resembles the moon, bright gold contrasted with soft silver, and I could tell from the bets being laid around me that their names were Haldir and Legolas. Haldir seemed to be the one with the gentle features of the Elves of Lothlorien, and their white-blond hair. Legolas' features were more defined, his hair a darker gold.

They backed up for the final flight, obscuring my view, so I got up and sidled left, into an argument. A particularly irate dwarf bickered with two elves about the odds they were or were not going to give him. I stifled a laugh, apologized hastily, and took myself off to yet another vantage point.

I was beginning to wonder about Lothlorien. Taken as a whole, it appeared to be an Elvish community, but then one had the hobbits. And the disconcerting Strider, not to mention the bright elf who'd just won the tournament or his friend the dwarf. Were they refugees? Had they come, separately or together, on some errand unknown to me?

I watched as another out-of-place figure strode up to Legolas, clapping his shoulder and congratulating him in an undertone, and I wondered at the difference in his figure and Strider's. If I had called _him_ lord, I should name this newcomer a prince among men.

Not as tall as Strider, he was broader in chest and shoulders. His garments bespoke human strength more than Elvish grace, though they were beautiful and well made. Strider's stubble may have suited him, but this man wore a small, closely cropped beard that lent his stern face a noble air. Something haunted the back of his eyes even as he spoke of Legolas' triumph. Until, that is, Meriadoc and Pippin burst out of the trees to ambush him. Then his face smoothed, and he smiled genuinely as they danced around him.

No longer able to abide my curiosity, and having an excuse now, I sauntered over to them. "May I beg an introduction, Pippin?"

Pippin let go of the man's tabard to look up at me. "Can't you introduce yourselves?" This earned him a light cuff on the back of the head, but not from me.

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor." He offered me an appraising look and a bow.

I could tell he wasn't used to people here knowing who he was. I offered only my name, and watched him wait for an _of _or _daughter of_ after it. Obligingly adding an ambiguous "of Lorien", I held out a hand to shake, but nearly drew it back when I remembered that that might not be the custom here. As it turned out, Boromir grasped my forearm, squeezing it once in a warrior's salute before withdrawing. His hesitation over the gesture told me he probably didn't have many female comrades-in-arms, and I wanted very much to know why, and perhaps do something to change this.


	7. The Steward's Son

Chapter Six

The Steward's Son

"What brings you to Lothlorien, Lord Boromir?" I asked, trying to sound serious, which I was, and not like I was flirting, which I wasn't.

His gaze turned mildly surprised and inquisitive. "Do you not know? I had thought the nature of our errand known to all."

"I am but lately come to this place myself," I said, by not very much in the way of explanation.

Boromir's eyes flicked from me to the trees and back, as if reassuring himself that, since I was here, I was trustworthy. "Perhaps I am not the one best suited to tell you this tale."

"Would you have me pry it out of the hobbits?" I tried to make a joke of it, but everything about his posture and expression told me this was no laughing matter.

"You would find them more closemouthed still, for it is one of them who carries the thing we are sworn to destroy." He didn't sound too happy about that. "But there are others. Other members of our company."

"Indeed? Perhaps you would point them out to me?" Again, I pitched my voice for maximum non-flirtatiousness.

"Gladly. There stands Legolas of Mirkwood and with him Gimli the Dwarf. The hobbits are known to you. Gandalf the Gray, who was our leader, fell into shadow before we entered this land."

Sensing he wasn't finished with the litany, I asked, "Who leads you now?" I watched him struggle for words, expecting him to name himself.

Instead, he said, "Aragorn, whom the hobbits call Strider."

"He is known to me but lately." Boromir scowled. I changed the subject. "Where are you bound?"

The query surprised a smile out of him. "Now?" His question was an easy deflection of my true meaning. "I wander the Golden Wood. Walk with me?" He half-offered his arm, and then withdrew it, which suited me perfectly. We strolled through the giant mellyrn, looking up and around and everywhere except at each other.

Boromir seemed to be the kind of man who needed to fill a silence with words, so I waited. Fairly soon, he began to speak. "I did not mistake your question, my lady. I do not know where we are bound. My heart lies ever with Minas Tirith and my people, and I would journey there." The back of my head equated Minas Tirith with Gondor, which he had mentioned earlier. "What do you know of Gondor, lady?"

"Only what you tell me, my lord." I finally met his eyes, and saw that they were the color of watered coffee, very different from the hematite orbs that had so lately divined my soul.

Boromir looked away. "Much of what I would tell you is not friendly conversation."

"Yet I would hear it, lord," I demurred, demurely.

He turned to me, a look of incredulity spread across his noble features. "What manner of lady are you?"

"Of the usual sort, my lord," I replied, suppressing an impish grin. This was fun.

Boromir looked ahead once more. "I think not. But I shall tell you of Gondor. Of cities ancient and proud, and of Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard. Our land is the first line of defense against Mordor, and until now that defense has stood. Stood, at the price of all we once held dear. I shall tell you of a people who send their sons into battle at thirteen, boys made to fight and die like men. And I shall tell you of myself, who led them."

"Do the women fight, my lord?" I lobbed him a verbal curveball, because I truly wished to know, but also to see how he responded.

He again turned amazed eyes upon me. "'Do the women fight?' They do, though most learn trades, to keep the city running while the men are gone. Some go openly to war, but it is not required, and they are not many. And some cut their hair and go in secret, in the name of husbands or fathers or brothers. Or sons."

"I would see this city, my lord."

This time Boromir would not look at me. "I pray you never do, for the sight of it would break your heart."

"It has already done so."

He froze before continuing. "Then I am sorry for it, but did I not tell you that this subject was not one for friendly conversation?"

"You did, my lord." Just like Dad: you agree, and they keep talking.

Boromir threw himself down on a wrought bench that stood beside a low hedge. "You mind me of an esquire that nods at his lord so he will not be beaten."

I smiled but did not sit. "Have you an esquire, my lord?"

"I did. His name was Maethor. He fell in battle three days before I set out from my city." Boromir hunched, covering his face with one hand. I saw a man who looked as if he had not slept for days, and my heart twisted with grief.

Kneeling beside the bench and a little to his left, I covered the hand that still lay on his knee with my own. "I am sorry, my lord." The words sounded silly and hollow, even as they left my lips.

"He was only one. Many others fall each day." Boromir gave a harsh bark of laughter. "You make me long for him, for I have need of someone to nod at me once in a while, instead of peppering me with questions." He scowled at his lap.

"Your pardon, my lord," I said. "Perhaps it is now your turn to pepper me with questions."

Boromir lifted his head as I bent mine. "How many years have you, Firiel?"

"Nearly twenty, my lord," I replied quietly.

His next question surprised me. "Are you betrothed, or bound to a man?"

"Not as such, my lord." _Why in heaven's name was he asking me this?_

"It is no fit answer," he grumbled.

"Then no, I am not," I corrected.

"Are you a ward, then, of the Lady of the Wood? For you are not Elfkind, and I had not thought Men dwelt here."

Aware that we trod dangerous ground, I fielded the question, not willing to lie to him. "At present, my lord, my home is here."

"It is no fit answer," he warned again.

I bounded up from the ground, not quite angry. "And Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor has no place for an esquire whose answers are not fit."

"I have little place for anyone," he retorted, matching my tone. "Sit down, Firiel. It was badly done."His command was quiet, but I did not sit.

"Yes it was," I agreed, then added, "of me."

He sprang up again, all weariness hidden. I was for once glad of my height, which let me keep up with him. I could tell he was brooding, but I ventured a question. "My lord, if your land is, as you say, besieged by Mordor, why are you here? I do not doubt your valor," I added, not wanting to offend him. "I only wondered: does your city not need her Steward?" Reaching up, I pulled strands from my braid and then tucked them back in again nervously.

"I also wonder if my city needs me more in this hour," he spat, lengthening his stride. "But I am not the Steward, only the Steward's son. The Steward's elder son."


	8. The Test

Chapter Seven

The Test

"You have a brother, then, my lord?" I was nearly jogging now, just to keep pace with him.

"Faramir. He is five years my junior, yet I would name him my equal in most things, though he has more love of lore, and less of war-craft than do I. Gondor needs men of both ilk, for if she does not fall, loremasters and craftsmen must take the place of those who wield the sword. It is this that our father will not see, for despair has poisoned his heart." He fell silent, scowling in a frightening way, but not at me.

"But if your brother is not a warrior, what position is he granted?" I asked, to change the subject. "I assume the Steward has work for him also."

"Faramir is not a warrior, but he tries, for it is warriors our land needs now. There are times when it is hard to understand his actions, for I know what he would do, and it is far from what he must do. Yet he perseveres in his duty, captaining the Rangers of Ithilien, that part of Gondor most near to the land of the Enemy, because this duty takes him farthest from Minas Tirith and our father."

"Is his quarrel with the city, my lord, or with your father?" I asked curious about this family dynamic, nearly as dysfunctional as my own.

Boromir shot me a sharp glance, and I thought for a moment that he was going to tell me that it was none of my business, or some courtly variant thereof. But he answered, and then the boot dropped. "His quarrel, if what has always been may be called such, is with our father, the Lord Denethor. But I find it odd, Firiel, that you listen so willingly to my tale, but offer me none of yours."

Oh dear. "Have I asked you anything you did not wish to speak of, my lord?"

He considered a moment. "No," he said. However, looking up at him I could tell that I had, and that talking about his brother brought back feelings he would rather not experience. I decided not to argue or insist upon further talk about Faramir, but before long 'my' thoughts were disturbed by 'Boromir's' words: "But I have asked such things of you, have I not? My lady."

We'd gone from 'Firiel' back to 'my lady', which wasn't good. "You have."

"I would have you answer them," Boromir said quite plainly, stopping stock still before yet another low hedge. Was there nothing of medium height in all this land? Something that made one feel neither dwarf nor giant would have been welcome.

If I was going to tell him anything, it would be circumspect, and on _my_ terms. "As an esquire to his lord?"

He snorted at the question. "Aye, as an esquire who owes all truthfulness to his lord."

"Then so am I to you," I muttered, but if he heard me Boromir gave no sign. "Then, my lord, I shall speak to you as plainly as I may. I am but lately come from another realm to Lothlorien. I now dwell here by the sufferance of the Lady, and it was she who clothed me thus. I am not bound to this place, nor to her, but at present it is my home, for I have no other." He turned wondering eyes upon me, but said nothing in response to my quiet vehemence.

A little encouraged by this, I went on. "But I would go with you to Gondor, lord, for she seems a land in need. And I am told that the Steward's elder son has need of an esquire."

"You?" Boromir said, the incredulity in his tone making my heart sink even as my temper rose. "You would be my esquire?"

I lifted my chin. "Aye, my lord, if you will have me."

He ran his eyes over me skeptically. I straitened my back and fixed my eyes unseeing on a point far away, to keep from quailing under the scrutiny. "Can you ride?"

I thought about this for a moment. The back of my head knew what to do, but the number of times I'd actually been on a horse could be counted on one hand, with fingers left over. "Yes."

Boromir took my hesitation as time needed to concoct a falsehood. "An esquire," he repeated," who owes all truthfulness to his lord. Or her lord, as may be."

"Not well, my lord," I admitted. "But I can run a league without pause, and I am strong." Not Army material, perhaps, but finally those pushups I dragged myself through every morning would serve some good.

"Have you knowledge of weapons?" Boromir asked, encircling my wrist with his thumb and forefinger, while feeling my biceps with his other hand.

I had a strange suspicion that handgun expertise didn't count here. "No, lord, but I swear to you that I shall prove an apt student."

He snorted under his breath, and I cringed. Then, aloud, "A staff would be your weapon, or perhaps a short sword, for you are tall and strong, but without the sinews of an archer or the build to wield a broadsword." His tone and movements were brisk and professional, but I grinned with pleasure at them.

Boromir stepped back and drew his sword with practiced ease. He presented it to me on open palms, and I received it on mine. "Hold it up," he directed. I raised the sword to eye level, which earned me a "Higher." I stretched my arms above my head as far as I could, balancing the broadsword. Boromir stood, watching me lift what felt like twenty pounds of his tempered steel at the extent of my reach, left hand on his hip and right hand stroking his beard.

"May I ask the purpose of this exercise?" I gritted through my teeth, after five minutes dragged by like the same number of hours.

"How long you can hold it up," he answered, his tone both pleasant and patient, as if it should have been obvious. "The battle goes to those who hold out until their opponents falter."

That did it. The test now became a clash of wills. I latched my eyes onto his, set my jaw, and began to count slowly to myself.

Boromir looked away first, but with a small smile that cheapened my victory. By that time, my count had neared an even thousand, but now I had nothing to concentrate upon except the numbers that slunk sullenly by, and the numbness in my arms.

I switched tactics, repeating to myself poems that had caught my fancy over the years: O'Shaughnessy's _Ode_,_ Heather Ale_ by Robert Louis Stevenson and _The Highwayman_ by I didn't remember whom. When fragments of poetry deserted me, I dragged from my memory the verses my mother taught me as a child, letting the prose wash over me. Boromir, I noticed distractedly, had seated himself to watch me. I wondered what we looked like to the Elves who must move through this grove. Wishing I cared, I closed my eyes, pushing back the tremors that surged through my body in the growing twilight. I stopped focusing on anything in particular, simply existing in a world colored with agony. Time ceased, and I remained, frozen uncaring.

The weight lifted, but I needed a moment to realize it. My eyes flew open in time to see Boromir sheath his sword once more. My arms spasmed as he led me to a bench and bade me sit. When I did, he moved behind me, placing large hands on my shoulders. The rough fingers that had held the sword now set to work probing my trembling arms and back, forcing the cramps out of them with a touch both soft and strong. When he had me nearly put to rights, Boromir spoke, and ruined everything.

"I had to take it from Maethor, too, in the end, for he would not let it fall." I slumped, only half listening. "So it was that he, over all the others who coveted the position, came to serve the Captain-General as esquire. I see that same fierce, stubborn courage in you, Firiel, courage that will not let you fail at a task you have been told you cannot do."

"Aye, lord," I mumbled, "I am yours, all my life."

"No, Firiel. You are your own. Stay in the Golden Wood, far from the evil that would do its best to defeat that bright hope."

I sprang out from under his hands, all lethargy gone, panic creeping into my voice. "Please, my lord! It will not defeat me, and I can learn arms-" He interrupted me as I whirled to face him.

"Then I shall teach you, for I have been idle here too long. But I will not send you to battle, though you go at my side. The sight of Gondor's fall will never break your brave heart, Firiel."

In the darkness, as he left me, I slid onto the bench and wept until sleep claimed me, remembering his kind, cruel words and the touch of his hands.


	9. First Lesson

Chapter Eight  
First Lesson  
  
I awoke the next morning curled in a nest of blankets on a platform set high in a towering mallorn. It took me a moment to remember the waking dream that had been the night before. One of Galadriel's ladies, an ethereal beauty named Eruiel, had roused me from my bench and told me quite kindly that I couldn't sleep there. She'd led me to a secluded grotto nearly filled but a pool whose bottom was flat river stones. The elf-maiden bade me undress and get in, disappearing to return with soap and cloths of various sizes. I tested the water with my hand and, finding it pleasantly warm, stripped and climbed in. After setting down the bathing things within easy reach, Eruiel left me to wash in private.  
  
I'd paddled around for a bit, trying and failing to backstroke in a circle. Flipping over, I swam over to the side, grabbing the soap and a washcloth- sized square. The soap smelled of cedar and newly cut grass. I scrubbed everywhere, and then tugged the braid out and soaped my hair. Wearing nothing but bubbles, I climbed out to attempt a swan dive into the deepest end. It was badly done, but served to rinse me with a minimum of splash.  
  
I was back to languid paddling when Eruiel returned. Reluctantly, I climbed out and toweled off. She had brought me a long lavender nightdress, and by the time I had wrapped its silky folds around me, every other sentence had turned into a yawn. We gathered up my clothes and boots, and my pack from where I'd left it by the bench.  
  
After this, I had occasion to learn how to climb one-handed as we ascended stairs and ladders that spanned the girth of a mallorn's trunk. Saying the tree was tall would have bordered on ironic understatement, and what Eruiel termed the guest talans were nestled in the very top branches.  
  
I picked one out at her behest, and watched her unpack from a chest a variety of furs and blankets. She bid me good night and Namarrie, which my head kept forgetting to translate as 'Farewell'. I fell asleep almost at once, wrapped in the warm whispering wind.  
  
It was a glorious way to awaken, warm, with the light breeze bringing bird song and the scent of flowers. I rolled over, stretched, and went back to sleep.  
  
Or tried to. Boromir's face and his offer of arms training kept running through my head, conviently devoid of the refusal to let me see battle that had followed. I sat up, equal parts annoyed and intrigued. The sight of what had not been on the chest the previous night cheered me considerably, though.  
  
I washed my face in the silver basin with water poured from the silver ewer, though by this time I was very tired of silver, especially in basins. After finishing my ablutions, I peeked under the napkin covering the breakfast tray. My search revealed bread, sliced fruit, and a goblet of iced, orangish tea.  
  
The food disappeared at an impolite speed, because my poor stomach hadn't had any dinner the night before. Sated, I looked around for any elves who might have appeared to show me where I needed to go. There were none, so I dress, feeling extremely sheepish, and descended the tree alone.  
  
If Lorien my moonlight had been magical, Lorien in the morning was not to be believed. Sunlight sparkled off the golden mallorn leaves, reflected in the mirrors of their silver trunks. I looked down at the lush grass beneath my boots and reminded myself to breathe. Thoughts of home were gradually being buried, and I was not at all sorry.  
  
Finding the motley group of which Boromir was apparently part proved harder than I had thought. Caras Galadhon was a big place, even if most of it was above me. None of the other guest talans had been occupied, so I assumed they would be somewhere on the greensward. It was a pleasant search, and I lost track of how long I wandered.  
  
All around me now the air filled with song, light sad music coming from, I supposed, an elven choir hidden in the trees. I could understand the words with a bit of effort: a dirge, I had guessed rightly, for some fellow called the Gray Pilgrim.  
  
The name resonated, as did Boromir's words of the previous day: "Gandalf the Gray, who fell into shadow." I had made a mental note to ask him about this when the object of my thoughts stepped into the path before.  
  
Oh dear. Nice things never happened this neatly. I opened my mouth to give the Middle Earth equivalent of 'How about those lessons, then?', and my ability for high speech deserted me . My mouth pinched stupidly, my eyes fixed on the staff in his right hand and the dirk in his left.  
  
"Firiel. Well met. I have been looking for you," Boromir's mouth quirked, "squire."  
  
Something in my middle succumbed to gymnastics at this last, but my vocal chords continued in their state of paralysis. Finally they managed a squeaky, "On your attendance, my lord, here." I cringed mentally, recognizing the Shakespeare too late.  
  
Boromir passed me the short sword. After a moments puzzling, I unwrapped the belt from the sheath, buckled it about my waist, and settled the weapon on my left hip. With a glance at Boromir's, I pulled the excess leather back from the buckle, knotting it out of the way. Only then did he let me have the staff.  
  
The metal-shod length of wood was taller than I was, but it rode in my hand like I had been born with it there. I experimented with a few Little John- esque feints before attempting to twirl it with my right hand at one end. My wrist sagged.  
  
Sneaking a glance at Boromir found him watching, most likely making notes of things I needed to work on. I switched back to two hands, hold the staff ready.  
  
"The staff," Boromir began, "is a defensive weapon, for though it is possible to kill with one, it is neither easy nor pretty." He caught the gleam in my eye as I hefted it. "Though I see you would learn even that." Boromir unsheathed his sword, and the sound both warmed my heart and frightened me. We stepped off the trail into a sort of grove, and he told me in what I came to recognize as his command voice, "To counter a blow directed at your head, you'd use a high block." Boromir lifted his blade.  
  
High block. I raised the staff, parallel to the ground, over my head and a little in front of it. Boromir gave me a curt nod of approval. "Stand down." I set the tip on the ground, gripping low as if I held a walking stick. He swung, and I had only a moment to get the staff up into the block, or be cleaved from crown to breastbone by the broadsword. It was a near thing, taking all my strength to meet his blade inches from my skull.  
  
I expected the wood to snap, but it held, and the weight lifted as quickly as it had arrived. I lowered the weapon to look at it, and found that the smooth finish had not even been marred.  
  
"Again." I snapped the staff up again. And again, twenty-five blocks in all. At the last, Boromir, still maddeningly fresh, watched me breath hard through my nose. I was acutely aware that I had not done my push-ups this morning.  
  
After a miniscule respite, he revealed, "A middle block deflects a strike that would cleave you in twain, through your chest or belly." Lovely phrasing. I got the staff out at shoulder height. This block required muscles I was used to exercising, which allowed me to push back on the blade a bit. But twenty-five times, and even that grew tedious.  
  
Boromir's announcement that a low block defended one's thighs and knees fell on deaf ears. I knew what was coming next: get the staff, at stomach level, twenty-five times. I did, gritting my teeth and glaring. Boromir appeared not to notice.  
  
When we finished them, I leaned heavily on my staff to keep from toppling over and asked, "What if your opponent sliced lower?"  
  
"You jump, and swing at his feet," another voice answered as Boromir sheathed his sword. Both of us turned to see Strider, seated on a nearby boulder, the stem of a long, curved pipe in his teeth. Boromir scowled, then hid it under his beard. I watched the tension between them, knowing a bit of Boromir's side, but wondering about Aragorn's.  
  
I thought he'd caught the tail end of my scowl, when he got up from the rock and, knocking his pipe out, motioned me over. I sidled left until I faced him, six feet away. Aragorn's hands moved faster than sight, drawing a sword longer and less broad than Boromir's. He reversed the swing to swipe at my shins, and I pushed off with my toes, bending my knees so my heels touched the backs of my thighs.  
  
The longsword disappeared into its scabbard as quickly as it had come forth. Aragorn now regarded me with a mild frown. "Should your opponent swing low, jump," he repeated. "Always pair defensive gestures with offensive." He held out a hand for my staff. Reluctantly, I relinquished it.  
  
Aragorn examined the weapon, his face unreadable. Until, that is, he came to the end caps. "Mithril!" His eyes flew from Boromir to me. "Where did you happen by this?"  
  
I heard Boromir step closer and clear his throat behind me. "I asked it of the armorer, or rather commissioned Legolas to do so in my stead."  
  
Strider's frown deepened, but he handed me back my staff, saying, "This is a worthy, ancient weapon. Bear it well." He looked once more at Boromir and walked back towards the elven path.  
  
I noticed for the first time that my arms were trembling. Cutting my eyes at Boromir, who had taken Aragorn's place on the boulder, I wondered at the chances of another backrub like last night's. "Did I not say I could learn arms, my lord?" I inquired.  
  
Boromir looked up. "You did, but to tell requires more than one lesson."  
  
"Did I not also say that I should prove an apt pupil," I asked.  
  
"You did. But you overstep yourself." His mild frown was quite different from that of the absent Aragorn.  
  
"Your pardon, my lord." I dropped cross-legged on the grass in front of him, which forced me to adjust the short sword I'd forgotten I wore. It was easier just to unsheathe the thing. "But what of this?"  
  
"I would not teach you the sword, Firiel. A staff is a fit weapon for defense, for it is a gruesome thing to kill with, but death is beaten into a blade the day it is forged, death and blood. I said yestereve that you had not the sinews of an archer, but you will need them in some measure for the wielding of the staff. Begin with the sword."  
  
With a little effort I pared that down: my wrists weren't strong enough. I stood with a sigh, and began twirling the thing back and forth, rotating my wrists. Boromir, it seemed, approved. I switched hands and repeated the movements. This method worked well, since neither wrist became too tired. I ventured a question. "Who is this Gray Pilgrim that the songs are made about?"  
  
"You have knowledge of their tongue?" Boromir looked surprised.  
  
"Not as su-" I caught the unfit answer on its way out the door. "Aye, lord."  
  
"How did you come by such knowledge?" Boromir wanted to know. "For you are not, I think, Elfkind."  
  
I had thought that quite obvious, as my braid revealed my ears. Pausing my twirling, I considered the question. "I have a talent for languages, my lord." It was true, as far as it went.  
  
Boromir raised a brow. "You are much traveled, then?" He motioned for me to resume. I did, expecting my hands to snap off at any moment.  
  
"No, lord." If he wanted the truth, he was going to get it bare.  
  
But Boromir seemed content to drop the subject of me. "You asked of Mithrandir, for so we called him in Minas Tirith. There he was accounted a great lore-master, and by some called wizard. Elrond of Imladris chose him to lead our fellowship, and lead he did, though not along paths I would have chosen. The last of these passed through Moria." The name rang no bells. "There Gandalf fell in battle with a demon of the ancient world."  
  
I digested this, giving my wrists a rest. "What paths would you have chosen, my lord?"  
  
"We attempted Caradhras, and the very mountain set itself against us. After that, the Gap of Rohan would have been my choice, and then the road to Minas Tirith, for it seemed to me the Enemy watched all roads equally. But the vote of the company was against me."  
  
"Why, lord?" He glance was sharp enough to make me pick up my exercises.  
  
"Because they thought Gondor not a safe resting place for the Ring of Power, and chose instead to continue towards the heart of the Dark Lands. But I would not speak of this further."  
  
I sensed a dismissal, and asked, "Have I your leave to go, lord?"  
  
A strange look, but a nod. "Return here on the morrow."  
  
I grinned and nodded back, turning to go. "Firiel," he called me back, "you did well." I sketched him a bow, heart glowing, and walked away. 


	10. The Lady of the Elves

Chapter Nine

The Lady of the Elves

The air of Lorien made me want to do nothing more than lie idle on the springy grass. So I did, after stowing my staff and sword in the talan. Carrying weapons around Lorien did not seem wise.

My mind chewed on Boromir's words as I rubbed my wrists back into use. I'd have to work him round to swordplay. Running through the staff blocks in my head was lovely, but it paled next to a lifetime of swashbuckler books and movies. Yet leaving the staff had been like putting aside a bit of myself. I remembered Aragorn's admonition to pair the defensive with the offensive. Boromir had rejected applying this to my study of weapons, and I wondered if his reason had been based on where the idea came from. I would have to see more interaction between the two men to judge, though.

Aragorn had been one of those who voted against journeying to Gondor, perhaps that was it. And he led the company now. Why and how I could not tell, for the man had a weary, worn attitude, dingy against the brightness of Lorien.

Boromir, on the other hand, was by his own admission a leader of men. His aura of brute charisma testified to it. But he seemed to think this not enough to save his city, since it could not even get him there.

And this Ring of Power. The phrase was nearly laughable, something cooked up by sci-fi hack writers. But I did not want to laugh, and asking outright questions seemed unwise. It seemed one rather didn't, in the same way one didn't carry weapons in Caras Galadhon.

I caught myself, as Amy termed it, spending too much time in my own head. And then I thought, 'Sod Amy', and went back to my thoughts, but something had been lost. My fingers itched for my whistle, to join in the music around me.

I played by ear: let me hear a tune a few times, and I can tootle it with a minimum of error. It's fun and distracting, but otherwise not much use.

I do not know how long I lay there, sounding out dirges in my head, translating them into movements. Twiddling, Dad called it, when my eyes unfocused, my hands drifted one above the other, and my fingers twitched.

It was this that occupied me when I became aware of two boot toes by my waist. A fine, aristocratic face with high, sharp cheekbones also drifted into my consciousness. I sat up, nearly laughing, noticing that the light around me had dimmed.

The Elf cleared his throat to speak in a light baritone. "I bear a summons from the Lady. She would speak with you." He extended a hand to help me up, but I stood on my own, and he withdrew it, face impassive.

The Elf turned on one heel and bade me follow him. I did, eyes on the silver-gray drapes of his wrapped tunic, narrowly resisting the urge to pester him with questions in an attempt to shake his composure.

We walked up the wide sloping lawn, past a tinkling silver fountain, to the greatest of the mighty mellryn. There my guide had words with the white-cloaked sentinels at its base, and after some business with a horn, we ascended.

The climb was over three times that of my vertical journey to bed the previous night, but rests along the way and a spectacular aerial view of Caras Galadhon rendered it doable. We passed many telain, going through some, like the last, a wide affair with a white house in the middle.

But up past this was a smaller platform, set off to the side. As I set foot on it, I found that my escort had disappeared. I shrugged, casting a glance around. The talan was trying to be an open-air sitting room, but, while its designers had had exquisite aesthetics, they'd never seen an actual parlor. Silver lamps illumined soft benches and carved chairs set on embroidered carpets.

As I looked, something in my mind gave a quarter turn, and everything fell neatly into place. 'This is the receiving room of the Lady Galadriel.' the words echoed in my mind as she stood to greet me. "So you have passed a night and day in Lorien, child. How do you find my land?"

She asked as if she already knew the answer, which would have irritated me, if it had been anyone else asking. Galadriel seemed now even more regal, as if she were wrapped an invisible cloak of power. I answered anyway. "The beauty of all Middle Earth does indeed pale beside that of Lorien, lady. And I hope now that my words may be counted fair."

She smiled with only her starry eyes. "They may. But how have you passed this time, since last we met? Or first, as it may be." She laughed, a low, rippling noise too soon gone.

"With the other strangers in this land, and I would know how they came to be here, lady." I wondered if picking the Lady's brain was allowed.

"By journey long and perilous, on errand of great import. But some of this you know, I think?" She asked me to sit, so I curled my feet under me on one of the couches.

"Some, yes," I agreed. "But less than I would."

"But that the company is divided as to its destination, that much is known to you?" Galadriel questioned, her voice shrewd.

I nodded. "It is, but not the reason for it."

The Lady began a story, and in the beginning I could not see what it had to do with Boromir and his companions. Many rings were mentioned, and their forging, then the making of another ring by a Dark Lord who wished to rule all of them. It soon became clear, however, that this was the ring everyone was interested in, the Ring of Power Boromir had mentioned. Galadriel explained that Frodo, whom I had met, bore this Ring, and that Elrond, a great Elf-lord, had chosen a group of people to travel with him. They were the strangers in Lorien. "Frodo has sworn to see the Ring destroyed, but not all, even some who count themselves his friends, would have it so. You know of whom I speak." Her gaze turned sharp as she finished.

I felt the need to stand up for Boromir and his motives. "Could it not be used one last time, for good?"

"Used, yes, but it would not be for the last time, and the times after that would be for evil."

"But Gondor will fall!" I protested.

"So you have been told. But I know his heart who said it, and he would save his land, and all Middle Earth." I smiled, thinking she'd come round, and then Galadriel continued. "And he would set himself King of Gondor, and then of other lands, and so the Ring would corrupt Boromir."

I stood up, my fists clenched, glaring at her. "It would not!" But Galadriel only sat, looking at me, and no queen on any throne was ever prouder or more stern. I subsided and sat, quelled but not convinced.

"He despairs, though I have told him his city shall not fail, for he thinks I try to trick him. So I charge you with this task, Firiel: show him hope, learn from him, and listen, for I think he will speak to you."

I drew myself up. "All this I would do without your bidding, lady, and gladly."

"I know, daughter of earth, but now you must." And with this cryptic statement, Galadriel rose. "Go now and sleep. Return to me at this time on the morrow, and we shall speak further."

The descent was oddly hard, as if my body resisted it. I found my way back through the twilight to what I had come to think of as my talan. Someone had tidied the place up, and left a tray of dinner.

I consumed the light meal absently, undressed, and lay down, but it was a long time before I found sleep.


	11. Refusal

Chapter Ten

Refusal

My days assumed a routine, a welcome change from my former state, now a world away, of constant loose ends. I woke early, breakfasted, and sought out Boromir. He would put me through my paces with staff and sword, and after the lesson we would converse, or simply sit together in companionable silence. I often wandered alone after this, or lay in thought, before making my pilgrimage to the Great Tree. My evenings were spent with the Lady, learning lore, and a great many other things, as well.

I often encountered members of the Fellowship. The hobbits were a constant delight, and surprisingly easy to talk to. Aragorn and I reached tacit speaking terms, which I regarded as a great accomplishment on my part. Legolas was often gone, taking Gimli the Dwarf with him, but I came to recognize them, as well.

Three weeks had passed, or more, for time in Lorien was a strange thing, and I could not be sure of my count. At dusk one day I climbed the royal mallorn, something I now accomplished with ease. The sentries barely nodded at me, and I reached the Lady's receiving room in record time.

She was waiting for me, as always, but her aura was changed. I could not put my finger on the difference until she spoke. Galadriel's voice had an air of finality as she asked me about the activities of the day. I summarized absently, waiting.

Boromir had said I might move on to aggressive, one-handed staff tactics, and showed me several feint-block combinations which we had practiced until I was unable to lift my arms. Sitting beside him afterwards, I had actually fallen asleep. Boromir was gone when I woke, which made me oddly sad, but I did not speak of this.

When I finished, Galadriel nodded. "That is well, for I do not think you are much longer for this land, child."

It took me a moment to register what she had said, and a moment more to form a coherent reply. "You cannot send me back, lady."

She answered me with a cryptic smile. "Indeed, but you may go."

Slow again on the uptake, I understood her double meaning finally and bowed my way out, nearly falling several times in my haste to get down the ladder.

Under the pale light of a sliver of moon, Lorien glowed faintly, dark and mysterious. I set off, stalking aimlessly, fists clenched, seething to myself. How dare she try to send me back when I hadn't even done anything? I simply would not go.

Directing my steps past the Fellowship's pavilion, I counted seven slumbering male bodies, all snoring to some degree or another. The one I looked for, however, was not there. I sighed and went in search of Boromir.

In truth, he found me, for I would have walked right past him, seated as he was in the shadows, if he had not called out to me, "Firiel?"

I turned. "On your attendance, my lord, here." It had become a catchphrase, since my saying it made him smile.

Boromir lifted his chin to get me to come closer. I saw that his sword was out and that one hand held a polishing cloth. "What troubles your sleep this night?"

I flung myself down near him. "I might ask the same of you, lord. But to answer you, the Lady Galadriel would send me away from Lorien, and I have no true home but this land, now."

Busy focusing on the blade, he did not look at me. "Do as she says, Firiel. She wishes only to keep you safe," he said, rubbing at an invisible speck of rust.

"Will everyone send me away?" I exclaimed. "Am I a child, that I must hide at the first sign of danger?"

"Yes." Boromir sighted down the length of the tang, still not looking at me.

"How many years have you?" I demanded, in an attempt to prove my point.

"Two score and one," came the reply, devoid of emotion.

I took a mental step back. This man, who appeared in his late twenties, was old enough to be my father. I changed tactics. "Am I not bound to you, lord, as your esquire?"

Boromir sheathed his blade, saying, "You have sworn no oath of service, neither to me nor Gondor."

"But I would so swear, lord." I was in earnest, with a side motive of wanting desperately to stay in Middle Earth.

He gave me a look, as if to say, "Nice try", and a bit of me died. "I will hear no oath from you." At this, the rest of my heart crumpled.

"Then let me journey with you on your quest," I pleaded.

"That would require the vote of the entire company, and I do not believe they will give it to you." He paused. "Besides, did I not hear you say that you would not leave this land?"

"Only by your side, lord," I admitted.

Boromir stood. "Then you will have your wish, and remain in Lorien."

I scowled into the trees, hearing him stump off.


	12. The Second Task

Chapter Eleven  
The Second Task  
  
I think I must have fallen asleep, for in the morning I found myself, stiff and damp, under the same tree. It was a glorious dawn, but I took no joy in it.  
  
I absented myself from lessons that morning in what I must admit was a fit of spite and petulance, because I kicked my self for it as the day went on. Pride kept me from seeking Boromir out and apologizing, though.  
  
After drowsing most of the afternoon so I wouldn't have to think, I took myself up to the not-quite sitting room. Galadriel was conspicuously absent. I had waited for possibly five minutes when she flowed in.  
  
Standing reflexively as she sat, I heard the Lady sigh almost inaudibly. "Your departure from Lorien is nigh, daughter of earth. I shall explain my remarks of yestereve."  
  
I dropped to the couch with a whumph, hundreds of protests running through my head. But I stayed silent.  
  
Galadriel leaned forward slightly. "Do you not desire to go with the Fellowship?"  
  
I nodded, trying to keep my hopes down and failing.  
  
"Can you act with honor in their company?" Stern, pale eyes captured mine.  
  
Honor? It occurred to me then that I would be traveling with eight males. "I can, lady."  
  
"It will be a hard road. Will your conduct remain civil, no matter the toil asked of you?" I remained in the grasp of those eyes.  
  
Good grief, she was asking me to behave. "It will, lady."  
  
Galadriel looked down at her slim, white hands, and spoke softly. "You see only the adventure, and none of the pain. But perhaps that is how it must be. I send you with them, Firiel, that the Fellowship may remain whole, and I lay on you another task, like to the first: watch always, and seek peace between the others."  
  
"My lady," I began, hating myself for not being able to lie, "I must tell you that I have been told quite plainly that I am neither needed nor wanted on this quest."  
  
Galadriel smiled like a cat: a soft, dangerous turning-up of the lips. "They will, I think, accept you as my emissary." She stood. "Remain here until you are summoned." The Lady swept out, disappearing from view.  
  
I puzzled over this brusque statement, and then my curiosity got the better of me. Tiptoeing out, I sneaked after her. Trailing Galadriel's train led me down to the talan with a house on. Or rather, a small white castle trying to be a house. Its great doors opened as she swept through. I peeked after her, watching her take a seat beside Lord Celeborn in the midst of many other elves.  
  
A decidedly un-Elvish tread sounded on the stairs that spiraled up to the entrance. Looking down, I saw the entire Fellowship trooping up. Sam, trying to look everywhere at once, saw me. I put my finger to my lips in a plea for silence, and scrambled backwards.  
  
From safe in the receiving room, I heard them march in. I waited for the creak of closing doors, but none came, so I crept back down and stationed myself out of sight by the entrance.  
  
From my post, I caught perhaps one word in three of Celeborn's speech, sonorous as his basso tones were, He seemed to be offering the members of the company a choice, whether leave or stay in Lothlorien. All of them must have decided in silence, for Galadriel next spoke of everyone's decision to go forward. Boromir confirmed it, and the sound of his voice made something in my middle twist.  
  
What Galadriel had spoken to me about earlier became clearer as I listened: the Fellowship was divided about their destination. Celeborn refused to chose for them, but offered the company boats to aid their journey down the river.  
  
As Aragorn thanked him, the Lady's voice sounded in my head, something I thought I'd never get used to. We require your presence, daughter of earth. I counted to twenty, in an attempt to make it appear that I had descended from the talan above, before stepping around and through the doors.  
  
Standing just inside, perhaps fifteen feet behind the Fellowship, who had their backs to me, I heard Galadriel tell them, "Upon it's departure from Imladris, the company numbered nine, and I would not send you from my land shorthanded. Therefore, I offer to complete your number."  
  
From what I could hear of the group's murmurs among themselves, it was clear that they expected to leave Lorien in the company of a great elf-lord who would aid them in their quest. My heart made a valiant attempt at burrowing when I realized what a disappointment I would be after such expectations.  
  
Then Galadriel spoke my name aloud, and the assembly turned. I fixed my eyes on those of the Lady but saw Boromir's face twist with the rage of betrayal and then assume a blank mask. She beckoned me forward, and the company parted for my approach. "Your companion, gentlemen." But though she said it, I neither felt nor believed it.  
  
Celeborn informed us that all would be ready at the haven for our departure tomorrow noon, and we bowed and left as one. Descending as one proved to be a bit of a problem, however. The bits where stairs spiraled around the mallorn trunk were manageable, although I got pushed to the end. No, the crush came when we were confronted with ladders. Having one's fingers trod on by hairy hobbit feet while dangling two hundred feet in the air was not an experience to be repeated. I confess to poking Pippin once or twice.  
  
Following the tide to the Fellowship's pavilion, I watched Aragorn and Boromir together in hushed but animated discussion. I caught Strider hissing once, "You cannot defy the Lady," and knew my coming was being discussed.  
  
Once we reached the pavilion, the hobbits cast themselves down, protesting in various ways that their kind weren't meant to climb anything. When they discovered the evening meal that had been left for us, though, they shut up. The two men remained closeted together, and since Legolas and Gimli were as thick as thieves, I plopped on the soft grass, reminding myself that I didn't cry. My eyes were squeezed tight shut when I sensed that the discussion had become general: the topic that of our destination. I faced everyone, not planning to add my two cents. In doing so I caught Boromir's eye, and, quailing under his murderous scowl, looked down quickly.  
  
Frodo, the Ringbearer, was silent, and Aragorn, our fearless leader, seemed of two minds. Nothing was being accomplished. Finally, Boromir announced that his duty was to go to Minas Tirith, and he would go alone if need be. I wanted to stand and declare that he would not go by himself, but I remained silent, not sure if he wanted my company or my aid to save his city.  
  
Boromir continued, saying that if we wished only to destroy the Ring, then his city could not help, but if we wished the Dark Lord destroyed, then we should not go alone and not throw away. Throw away what, I wondered. Lives, he amended, though I did not think that was what he had originally meant to say. He ended by telling us it was a choice between going to death and defending a strong place.  
  
I opened my mouth to second this, and then snapped it shut, sure that my approval would hinder rather help his cause. Then, watching him stalk off to the end of the shadowed lawn, I became annoyed at my own cowardice, so I popped up and followed. Boromir threw himself down, one knee drawn up to his chest, brooding.  
  
"My lord," I tried, kneeling beside him. He ignored me. "My lord, I know I have displeased you, but give me leave to speak, that I may answer for my actions. Please."  
  
"Begging does not become you, Firiel," came the answer in a heartbreaking monotone.  
  
I launched into my explanation. "The Lady thought to send me, lord, truly, though I confess I did greatly desire to journey with you."  
  
"And now you must journey. By happy chance your wish is granted. I shall not gainsay the Lady." Boromir cut his eyes at Aragorn, scowling.  
  
"But that wish had not your blessing, lord," I protested, uncomfortably aware that what I had wanted had been handed to me, only now I didn't want it anymore. Somehow, pleasing Boromir meant more to me than pleasing myself.  
  
"I only thought to protect you from harm." His voice was weary. "It will be a comfort to have you along."  
  
So I 'was' some help as a squire! But still. . . "Not a burden, lord?" I wanted to know.  
  
"A comfortable burden." Very reassuring, that. "The hour is late," Boromir ended. "You are to sleep here?" I could see that the propriety of this arrangement did not please him.  
  
"Aye, lord." I sketched a bow and dashed away, skinning up to my talan and back down, collecting my things in record time. Panting, I spread my blankets beside him, a little distance away. And for the first of many nights, I fell asleep with Boromir watching over me. 


	13. Leaving Lorien

Chapter Twelve  
Leaving Lorien  
  
I woke early, not used to being on the ground. Everyone was already up around me, though no one was doing much. I visited the bathing pool, and then walked around saying silent goodbyes to the land of Lothlorien.  
  
When I returned, sad but refreshed, I found the company packing, though no one seemed to have a great deal of baggage. A group of elves bearing gifts was also in attendance. The farewell presents seemed to be mostly in the form of food and clothing. I snuck a corner of the leaf-wrapped something Gimli was munching, listening to the elf who was telling him that the somethings were called lembas, and that he shouldn't eat them now, as they were for long journeys. The things looked and tasted for all the world like very expensive graham crackers.  
  
The elves, whom, I noticed, all spoke the common tongue, had also brought each of us a hooded cloak, sized to fit. I hesitated to call their color camouflage, for it was not the mottled green-brown of fatigues; they were not really one color at all, but shifted to match light and background. Pippin beat me to asking if they were magical, which was fine, because he got smirked at.  
  
I slung my not-magic cloak on, and immediately resolved never to take it off. It was light and soft, alternately warm and cool, like silk. I could well imagine that, as the elves told us before they disappeared, the fabric had been woven my Galadriel and her maidens themselves.  
  
The fellowship breakfasted, and then the elf whom Legolas had beaten at archery appeared. Haldir, I remembered. He spoke what seemed to me random ill news, and then said he had come to take us south. So we went south, with me straggling after Boromir.  
  
Caras Galadhon looked deserted, but unseen voices in the trees above us spoke and sang softly. We passed out through the great lamp-lit gates onto a road paved with white stones, and so left the city of the Galadhrim. Presently, Haldir led us off the road, through a cluster of mellyrn, and on down the gray-wooded hills. No one spoke.  
  
We walked like this until the sun rose high in the cloudless heavens, something near ten miles, I supposed. For my part, I slogged along at the end, tired and bored, trying to ignore the piteous glances the hobbits were shooting at me. Boromir's dropping back with a quiet offer to carry my pack was the final straw. I stumped up to walk beside Haldir. He offered me only an aristocratic glance, and I saw that he wasn't even sweating. Perhaps elves didn't sweat. Musing on this, I doggedly kept pace, thumping my staff on the ground at each step.  
  
I had my head down, which nearly caused me to run into the wall of greenery that rose in front of us. Another disdainful glance came my way as Haldir stepped through a gap in it. I followed, catching my breath at the pastoral landscape before us.  
  
Grass so lush it begged to be rolled in spread longer than it was wide, studded with tiny yellow blossoms. I stooped to pick one, noticing the silvery eastern stream that vied for beauty with the mighty rolling river to the west. Trees spread beyond these watery borders, but they seem bare and dead, for no mellyrn grew among them.  
  
On the bank of the stream was a little white cove, at its dock were moored many boats. Some of them were quite magnificent, painted in jewel-bright hues, but most were pale gray or white. All of them looked sturdy and light; well made things. I wondered which were to be ours.  
  
The elves stowed our meager baggage in three wide, dove gray canoes. They also added coils of rope, which seemed for some reason to intrigue Sam.  
  
When everything had been packed away, Haldir told us to get in, but to be careful. He told us that the boats would serve our purposes, but that they would not take kindly to mishandling. I hung back, waiting to see which of the hobbits would get the first bath. None of them did, though Aragorn narrowly saved Sam from a dunking while supervising the getting in and out practice.  
  
I liked boating of all kinds, but preferred kayaks to canoes. Merry and Pippin seemed enthusiastic, as well, and they were bundled into the first boat to stop them scaring Sam with tales of their exploits on the Brandywine River, Boromir behind them. I noted that he seemed at ease in the boat, if not quite in his element.  
  
This left Aragorn, Frodo, and a quivering, greenish Sam still in conversation with the elves, and Legolas trying to coerce Gimli into a boat. He was going about it all the wrong way, too: by hopping in himself and paddling about to show how easy it is. The dwarf held forth quite eloquently on the evils of water travel, but when I seated myself in the prow, he got in, grumbling. Legolas continued his deft strokes while I located a paddle. These were short, beautifully carved affairs, their blades made to look like leaves.  
  
We held our boat against the current and had a great deal of fun watching the attempts to get Sam into the third boat. In the end, Strider sat in the stern with Frodo in front of him. Sam climbed laboriously in when Frodo called to him, nearly capsizing the vessel. He seemed to be willing to follow Frodo anywhere: I had gleaned from watching the hobbits that Sam was something of his servant, as well as his friend. But not even this could stop him clutching the sides of the boat for dear life.  
  
Aragorn proposed that we take the boats up the silver stream to try them out. This struck me as dead boring, so I looked back at Legolas, who managed the boat like one born in the water. "Do you fancy a race?" I asked quietly in elvish.  
  
The elves eyes lit with a near-frightening competitive gleam. He raised his voice in the common tongue: "Aragorn, Boromir! A race?"  
  
Gimli and Sam's shouts of protest were drowned out by Boromir and the other hobbit as they shouted assent. We made a pretense of lining the boats up, and then one of the elves on the shore counted off for us.  
  
At the signal, Legolas and I dug our paddles into the water beneath us, gaining the lead. It was hard going, for said water was swift-flowing, and we were paddling against it. Our boat did, however, have two rowers to the others' one. I also knew that Pippin's bouncing and Sam's shaking weren't helping them.  
  
This unfair advantage got us to the elf marking the finish line half a boat's length before Aragorn or Boromir. However, we had agreed to a relay race, and they had wised up, so why our boat was celebrating, the two men simply removed their paddles from the water, letting their respective boats drift back to the dock. Gimli was the first to notice this tactic, but by the time Legolas and I got our acts together, Boromir's boat had bumped the bank, with Aragorn's a hairsbreadth behind. They waited for us to catch up before setting off down the Great River.  
  
No paddling was really necessary, because the current was with us now. I followed Legolas' lead, though, stroking lazily to stay ahead. The three boats spread out in the wide water, ours nearest the eastern shore, Aragorn's in the middle with Boromir's toward the western bank. The day was crisp and clear, silent except for faint birdsong. There was no wind. Here and there in the gray-green water floated golden mallorn leaves, like water lilies.  
  
I had made up my mind to try and make conversation with the elf and the dwarf when we rounded a sharp bend in the river, finding ourselves confronted with a giant swan. 


	14. The Gifts of Galadriel

Chapter Thirteen  
The Gifts of Galadriel  
  
I started, nearly turning us over, but as our tiny fleet sailed closer I saw that it was not a real swan, but rather a boat carved in the likeness of that water bird. Its eyes and beak glittered in the afternoon sun, and its great wings were half upraised. The boat drifted toward us, bringing music. Two elves punted it, and on a throne in the center sat Lord Celeborn. The Lady stood behind him, like a tall white lily crowned with gold. She held a lyre, singing and playing a song so lonely and beautiful that I ceased paddling to wipe away tears. The rest of the Fellowship was similarly affected, but I still felt ashamed.  
  
We stopped our boats beside the swan-ship. Galadriel finished her song and said that she and the Lord had come to bid us their last farewells and to speed us on our way with gifts from the land of Lorien.  
  
Then Celeborn spoke, saying that that although we had been their guests, we had not eaten with them. He invited us to a parting supper on the long lawn near the river. Their boat drifted back to the cove, and we turned to follow it. A magnificent picnic had been spread on the soft grass, and we set to with a will, all except Frodo. I followed his gaze to the Lady. She seemed distant, like a marble statue set on a pedestal, gazed at but gone.  
  
After our meal, Celeborn spoke to us again, laying out our path in plain terms. Farther down, the Anduin flowed into a barren land before splitting around the island of Tol Brandir at the falls of Rauros. There, the Lord said, We would have to choose our course: on the western bank lay the plains of Rohan, land of the horse lords, and the way to Gondor, but to the east of the falls were the hills of Emyn Muil, and the path to Mordor. He also warned us of Fangorn, the sinister forest on the border of Rohan.  
  
At the mention of Fangorn, Boromir spoke. I sat up, listening as he told of his journey to Imladris, a tale I had been meaning to pry out of him. Four hundred leagues in one hundred and ten days, much of it on foot. I quite agreed with him when he said that he could find a way through Rohan and even Fangorn if he needed to. But this time he would not be alone.  
  
After a final admonition from Celeborn, Galadriel stood. She filled a chalice with something foamy; presenting it to her husband, she spoke words of farewell, bidding us not to be sad. I privately did not see how this was possible. After Celeborn drank, she gave the cup to each one of us in turn. When Galadriel came to me she spoke softly while I tasted the drink. "Farewell, child. Go, and be strong." The honey mead rolled down my throat, thick and cloyingly sweet, as I nodded.  
  
When everyone had had come, the elven retainers produced carven thrones for the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim. One by one, Galadriel called each of the fellowship to her, saying she had gifts for us. Aragorn went first, which did not surprise me. He was presented with a jeweled sheath for his sword, Anduril. I could not hear Galadriel's words to him, but she also gave him a magnificent silver brooch, wrought like a swooping eagle that clutched a gigantic emerald in its talons.  
  
As Aragorn pinned it to his dust brown jerkin, he . . .changed. The years fell away from his appearance, he stood tall and proud, a king among men instead of the stooped Ranger I knew. I looked from him to Boromir, but there was still a difference: Aragorn commanded my attention, but to Boromir I gave it willingly.  
  
Boromir was called next, which I was glad for. Galadriel gave him a belt of linked leaves made of beaten gold. It suited him, I thought. I watched Boromir receive it, and then the Lady called on me. "For you, daughter of earth, I have only a small gift, for a great one you already bear." She looked toward the staff that lay on the grass beside me, and handed me a thin, cylindrical leather case. Taking it, I drew out a silver whistle, of the form of my old one, but beautifully etched with swirling designs. "The music in your soul has been too long contained, child." And then, in my mind: "Pray, Firiel, for one God made all Earths."  
  
I sat back on the lawn, significantly closer to Boromir than before, cradling the instrument and ignoring everything else. Raising it to my lips, I blew softly, fingers covering all six holes. The whistle emitted a low, mournful sound, like the call of a dove. I dared not play anything louder, so I laid it in my lap, running a finger along the tracery and thinking songs.  
  
Boromir touched my shoulder, and I looked to him, following his gaze to the now standing Galadriel and Celeborn. The Lord led us back to the cove. We resumed our places in the boats, Sam and Gimli silently this time. With shouts of farewell, the elves pushed us out into the stream. A minimum of strokes headed us into the Anduin's swift flow.  
  
Galadriel stood at the point of the lawn, where the stream ran into the river, singing in Elvish. I stored the tune up in my head. As I turned back to look, she seemed to be drifting away from us, instead of the other way 'round, into a past that lived only in memory. 


	15. Tuning

Chapter Fourteen  
Tuning  
  
Turning a bend in the river, we lost sight of her, which forced us to face the journey before us. My eyes prickled with tears. Gimli sobbed in front of me, and even Legolas reached up to dash at his cheeks. The other boats were too far any to see if any of the rest of the fellowship were so affected.  
  
"I have left the fairest thing in Middle Earth," Gimli snuffled. "After this I shall call nothing fair, except her gift."  
  
I set my head to speak the common tongue and asked, "What was your gift, for I did not remark it?"  
  
His brogue fairly oozed reproach. "Three hairs from her golden head." I had not thought that voice could turn dreamy. "I have walked unawares into the most peril we have yet faced on this quest. Fearing the dark, I have been overcome by the light, and it has wounded me sorely. The Dark Lord himself could not have done worse."  
  
"And he would not have left you a gift," I felt the need to point out.  
  
"That is true," Legolas answered, his light tenor surprising me. "Mourn for us all, Gimli, who exist in these elder days, for we soon lose any joy we encounter. But you, Gimli, are blessed, for such loss you suffered rather than leave your companions and their errand, and the unfading memory of Lorien shall be your reward."  
  
"Memory is small comfort." Gimli and I spoke at the same time, but I let him continue. "Perhaps for the elves it is more. But let us speak of it no further. The boat rides low, and I have no desire to quench my grief in river water." He cast about for a paddle.  
  
I passed the dwarf mine, and reached beside me for my whistle. We moved closer to the western bank as I trilled a few times, and then attempted the tune Galadriel had greeted us with on the swan-ship, for it had a mournful air, well suited to the piercing notes the pipe emitted.  
  
As I finished, I could almost hear the hobbits shouting at me to play something happier. It occurred to me that I hadn't really heard any happy songs in Middle Earth. So, feeling slightly guilty, I played Christmas carols and Irish reels far into the night.  
  
We docked for camp in the dark on the western bank. Though cold and damp, no one made a fire or unpacked much, merely carried the sleeping hobbits to shore and lay down beside them. Tired as I was, I wanted to stay up with my whistle, but sleep overtook me and I slipped into confused dreams, the instrument clutched to my chest.  
  
The next morning, when I felt Aragorn's firm touch on my shoulder, I calculated how many hours of sleep I'd gotten and pulled the blanket up to my chin.  
  
That seemed to have worked, because no one bothered me for a long minute, allowing me to get my R. E. M. cycle over with.  
  
"Firiel," Aragorn breathed beside me, and I thought, 'Well, he's being nice, about time.' I decided to wait a moment and then stand. "Get up!" he bellowed in my ear.  
  
I jumped six inches in the air while still horizontal, a most astounding gymnastic accomplishment, and bounced to my feet. Looking blearily around, I saw that everyone else had packed up and was watching me. Pippin was sniggering, and the rest of them wore smirks of various intensity. Except Boromir, who scowled as Aragorn stowed my blanket with deadpan dexterity and we set off.  
  
The second day passed much like the first, only colder and more damp. We had left golden Lorien for gray river mist, and I did not think it a good trade. I was trying to tell what time it was and how long the current had been carrying us when Boromir's boat pulled alongside ours.  
  
"Are we to have no music to cheer our hearts this day?" he enquired, almost plaintively. Pippin and Merry sat up and begged drowsily.  
  
I could have hugged all of them, but Boromir especially. Raising the whistle to my lips, I suddenly remembered that I had only anachronisms to offer. "I fear I have exhausted my supply of tunes, lord," I demurred, as Aragorn, with Sam and Frodo, slipped up on my left, "so everyone must sing me one of their own choosing, and I will play it for them."  
  
Silence, except for the lapping water. I thought I'd overstepped myself until a small, rustic voice broke the stillness: Sam. "Mr. Bilbo made a song at Rivendell that seems a fit one for a water journey: The Lay of Earendil." The hobbit began to chant softly, but as he eased into the song his surprisingly melodic baritone grew stronger. The lay was an epic one, and we sat spellbound as it wove the tale of the Elf-lord Earendil and his fate to forever sail the heavens.  
  
I picked up the throbbing tune perhaps a third of the way through. A drum would have suited it better, but I did my best. "The Flammifer of Westernesse!" Sam ended triumphantly.  
  
"Since we speak of journey-songs," Boromir began, after a moment, "there is a marching song we have in Gondor, though it may also be used to set the pace for oarsmen." I didn't even attempt to keep up with the tune, only listened to the voice, gruff and untrained as it was, more used to bellowing commands than to singing, but beautiful to my ears. Boromir finished entirely too quickly.  
  
"I fear I must prevail upon you again, my lord," I said, eyes downcast to hide their merriment. He gave be a curious look, but sang through the tune again. I picked it up easily, a variation on three notes.  
  
Merry and Pippin, not to be outdone, started in on a rollicking chantey that resembled a cross between a jig and a drinking song. Tenor and treble and lilting pipe swirled in the mist rising from the river in the noon sun.  
  
When the two hobbits ended their song with a shout, the day seemed even more mournful. Into this sad silence, Aragorn murmured what I could discern as an Elvish love song, his head bent and his paddle motionless. Feeling that my playing would overshadow the simple, beautiful words, I waited until the Ranger had finished to trill the tune back at him.  
  
Gimli cleared his throat in front of me. I jumped, not a safe thing to do in a boat. "I have small skill in the making of songs," he said, "but the beauty and wisdom of the Lady of Lorien has moved me to do so." Again the throat clearing. I had not thought a Dwarvish bass capable of a tribute to Elvish beauty, but Gimli managed it, and I provided counterpoint.  
  
Legolas' heartbreaking tenor spilled after we finished. I recognized the Lament for Gandalf, and I was ready. We chased each other up to soaring heights of melody, and then plummeted back down. He turned around to face me; it was almost a duet.  
  
After this display, I slumped back, exhausted. "We come at last to the Ringbearer," I finally got out. "Have you a song for us, Frodo?" I asked, hoping he would decline. No such luck. The hobbit sat up, sighed, and offered quite a fitting verse about roads that went ever ever on. He had quite a lack of vocal talent, but I caught the tune. It was short and simple, which I appreciated.  
  
I laid my pipe down. Gray day had become gray night without my noticing. Aragorn called a halt, and we pulled the boats onto the shore and cast ourselves down into sleep. 


	16. The Watcher in the Water

Chapter Fifteen  
The Watcher in the Water  
  
Boromir shook me awake the next morning, informed me that I had fallen sadly behind in my training, and set me to alternately blocking and striking while everyone else was still yawning. I groaned through the exercises, managing to thump him in the thigh.  
  
"My lord," I cried, lowering my guard, "are you-" Boromir whacked my hip with the flat of his blade, causing me to hop around in pain. I overbalanced on the uneven ground to sprawl at his feet. I looked up as the tip of his sword kissed my neck, then tipped my head back in defeat. My leg throbbed.  
  
I heard Boromir sheath his sword, and his hand appeared in front of my face to help me up. Grasping the calloused, brown palm, I attempted to yank him off balance. It didn't work. Boromir grinned at me as I stood sheepishly.  
  
"Were I an orc, you would be dead," he pointed out.  
  
"I wouldn't have been worried that I'd hurt an orc," I pointed back.  
  
"You have not hurt me, Firiel, but I may have done you some ill. However, an orc would do you much worse."  
  
I privately agreed, feeling the blood rush to my bruise, but I remained silent, unable to think of a snappy reply. For some reason my hand had remained in Boromir's after I got my feet under me. This affected my ability to think for reasons I did not understand. Both of us pulled apart when Aragorn trooped out of the woods, bow and quiver slung over his back, with three rabbits for breakfast.  
  
Not being one to squeak 'Oh, the poor dead bunnies! Aren't they cute!', I pestered Sam into showing me how to skin and clean them. I ended up bloody to the elbows, with a few mangled scraps of meat to show for my labor, but intensely satisfied. Sam took the rabbit away from me, and, declaring me hopeless, sent me to wash.  
  
I skipped down to the River, whistling Boromir's marching song, and scrubbed. The smell of sizzling meat greeted my return. My stomach took this opportunity to tell me how hungry it was. I consumed my share of the rabbit with relish, burning my tongue and fingers. After the hasty meal, we packed up quickly, setting out again for another day. I sighed, reaching for my whistle.  
  
Boromir took the third watch to guard our campsite on the riverbank that night. In the fading light I say him doff his tabard and tunic, and remove his chain mail shirt in front of him and begin going over it for, I didn't know, rust or holes or something. This left the man's upper body clad in only a thin linen shirt, which, I noticed, was sweat-stained and rather rank. I also suddenly remembered the crumpled underthings in the top of my pack. Philanthropy overtook me. I reached out and touched Boromir's shoulder. "I will wash that for you, if you like," I offered. "It will dry by morning."  
  
He turned towards me, expressive face creased in a frown, then went back to his armor, cutting his eyes at me, and stripped off the garment. At that moment it hit me that he'd actually have to 'remove' his shirt for me to wash it. Blood rushed to my face, and I could only hope that, in the twilight, none of the Fellowship noticed my blush as I took the shirt. However, instead of staying around to check, I grabbed my pack and marched down to the River.  
  
Retrieving the soap I'd discovered earlier, I proceeded to wet and lather our clothes, and to pound them against the rock I knelt by as if the entire incident was their fault. I rinsed the clothing quickly in the icy water and spread it out to dry.  
  
I had just laid out Boromir's undershirt when I heard a splash that I had not caused. I looked up in time to meet a pair of round, luminous eyes before they vanished with a plop.  
  
Time to think about this was not given to me, because someone behind me called my name softly. "Firiel?" Boromir. I whirled, and the first thing I registered was that he now, thank goodness, wore his tunic.  
  
He stepped up beside me. "I am sorry if I caused you embarrassment, an ill payment for such kindness." He gestured at the washing around me, and I was glad that it was now dark enough that individual shapes could not be distinguished.  
  
"No, it was I who offered," I mumbled.  
  
"Thank you." Strange, how two words could send such chills through my body. 'Must be the air off the River,' I thought, glad that I'd resolved to wash my hair in the morning.  
  
Remembering the eyes gave me an opportunity to lead the conversation off. I told Boromir about the something in the water. "Speak to Aragorn or Frodo, though I believe I could name this thing." He stepped closer to lay a hand on my shoulder, saying, "Come back. You have need of your rest."  
  
I nodded, wondering why all of my senses had suddenly decided to focus on the warmth of his hand seeping through my clothing, and why I was oddly sad when it left. Puzzled, I followed Boromir back to camp, where only Aragorn now sat awake, one hand cupping his pipe.  
  
Suddenly exhausted, I threw myself down and fell asleep to the smell of pipe smoke and the warmth of Boromir's back against mine. 


	17. Beginning

Chapter Sixteen

Beginning

In the small of the morning, I woke when Boromir sat up: Gimli had shaken him for the third and last watch of the night. I dragged myself upright, and whispered, "I'm going to wash." Boromir nodded, and I slipped away, having fairly warned all males in the vicinity.

A ways down the bank, out of sight of our camp, I left my clothes and boots in a neat pile and waded knee-deep into the frigid water. Kneeling, I wet my hair, then rubbed it with the soap from my pack. I stood to scrub the rest of myself, and then submerged to rinse off.

I found my clothes where I'd left them and dressed, shivering, wringing my hair out as well as I could. I retrieved the washing on my way up, and back at camp, crouched as close to the fire as comfort would allow to begin jerking the knots out of the sopping mass that hung down my back. I kept my hair long, it being marginally less trouble long than short. Except, of course, when it had to be untangled or dried.

Soft footsteps behind me, and someone removed the comb from my hand and proceed to tease the snarls out with none of the awkward jabbing of the uninitiated that tangle a comb in long hair. He held the heavy, wet mass in his left hand while the right stroked its way bit by bit towards the scalp with quick, expert motions. I felt myself shiver again, at more than the icy runnels chasing down my back.

Boromir finished entirely too soon, resuming his seat to leave me with a comb and straight, barely damp hair. My scalp protested at the loss of the glorious touch, and I moved to join him, to hand him his shirt. "My thanks, lord," I murmured, as I began work on a braid.

"I sought to repay you." He sounded uncomfortable. "For a squire is also owed service by the lord."

Oh. So that was how he saw it. A simple exchange of services: I'd washed his shirt, so he helped me with my hair. I suppose I'd wanted it to be more. Disappointed without knowing why, I stuffed my hair down the front of my tunic and wrapped my cloak around me. Sensing a brooding Boromir, I asked quietly, "How many days before we must decide our course, lord?"

"A week, perhaps less, if we continue at our present rate. Aragorn is of a mind to journey by night." He prodded the fire, and the flickering flames cast strange half-shadows over the face I knew as well as my own. I noticed that the nails of the hand holding the stick were bloody, bitten to the quick.

"Are you of the same mind?" I inquired, guessing the answer.

"He means to avoid pursuit and observation, but if we come to the rapids of Sarn Gebir in the dark they will do the Orcs' work for them, and dash us to pieces."

I could see both men's points of view. "My lord, what is the nature of your quarrel with Aragorn?"

"Firiel," came the warning growl.

"Pardon, lord." I subsided, but the question hung in the chill air between us, and finally he answered.

"He would place his trust anywhere save in his own kind; he is more Elf than Man."

I read between the lines. "Because he will not lead the Ring to Gondor?"

"You would do well to remember that your duty is courtesy as well as service." Boromir's voice was hard, and he did not look at me.

"While yours, my lord," I spat the title, "is merely to brood and keep your own counsel in all things."

If I had been a boy, I think he would have slapped me. As it was, he raised his hand, but only hit me with a quelling gaze. "This matter does not concern you."

I shot him a disbelieving look in the growing light. "Does it not, my lord?" I asked, my tone all false politeness.

"No, it does not." Boromir added another log to the fire and did not look at me.

By this time, I was seething. "Am I not a member of this Fellowship as well as your squire?" I demanded.

"I know not why the Lady sent you with us, but if you desire to remain my squire you will cease to question me." He stood, slapping his palms on his thighs, and began packing up his bedroll. At this silent dismissal, I turned away to do the same, angry and confused almost to tears. I did not shed any, though, since the others had begun to stir around us.

Aragorn organized Merry and Pippin into an expedition to catch fish for breakfast, and when they departed, Boromir barked, "Firiel, your staff."

Groaning, I retrieved it and stepped away from the fire. Boromir drew his sword, giving me perhaps ten seconds warning before he lit into me with a vengeance. I had thought my footwork much improved, but the power of his blows forced me back through the trees as I blocked them. It was more a lesson in survival than in technique, and only Aragorn's shout that we needed to head out saved me from Boromir's wrath. I trudged straight down to the boats, not waiting for the usual after-lesson commentary.

Though the River had widened and grown more shallow, the current was still strong. I was glad for this, since my wrists could not bear much paddling. I had not the heart for making music, and no one asked it of me. I was grateful for their courtesy.

The terrain upon either side of the Anduin had changed for the worse, as Lord Celeborn had said it would. The western bank rolled into lumpy plains of withered grass, while to the east the shore turned rocky far out into the water, making navigation a tedious business.

My stomach groaned, pulling my attention away from the miserable scenery. I had missed whatever fish might have been for breakfast in favor of one murderous staff lesson. Rubbing my wrists in memory and grumbling along with my middle, I reached into one of the bundles beside me and retrieved a cake of lembas. As I munched the sweet, crisp thing, hope seemed to fill my heart. I looked around at the others, hunched in the cold damp, and my eyes fell on Boromir, whose boat led today. He looked the weariest of all: leaving the half-hearted paddling to Merry and Pippin, he gnawed morosely on a thumbnail, glancing backwards now and then. But his gaze fell on Frodo, not me.

I felt renewed compassion for this man well up inside me, and disgust at my own behavior. After his kindness and tolerant attitude toward me, I had had the audacity to ask pointed, prying questions, and then to become angry when he did not wish to answer. I cringed, remembering the morning's conversation.

Boromir wore the dread of his county's doom like a crown of thorns, the weight of responsibility pressing it to his brow. And I had been trying to put myself on a level with him. I resolved to apologize to the man of Gondor as soon as I could privately do so.

We stopped early that day, mooring the boats on a small island near the western bank. Though it was only dusk, the wet chill had taken its toll on everyone's strength and spirits. I asked Aragorn if we might make a fire, and Boromir, to my surprise, seconded this. For our concern, we got told to go and find the wood, then. So, silently, Boromir and I unloaded the baggage from one of the boats and paddled the short distance over to the shore to search in the fading light.

"My lord?" I began, when my arms were half full of woody stems. He did not look up; my heart sank a little. I tried again. "My lord, I ask your pardon for my unseemly words of this morn."

Boromir straightened, arms laden, and walked over to me. I set my bundle on the ground, bowing my head in contrition, and quailed as he threw his wood down beside mine. But when he spoke, his words were gentle. "I shall give it, Firiel, if you will forgive me my unseemly actions." He slipped a finger under my chin to tip it up.

I attempted to demur, but Boromir leaned forward and captured my mouth with his own. After a moment, he pulled back, looking at me with a mixture of fear and wonder. "Long have I wanted to do that," Boromir breathed, his voice husky.

My face must have worn an identical expression as I replied, "It is the first time I have ever been kissed, lord."

The title seemed to remind him of something. "I would have you as more than my squire, Firiel." I was amazed at how gentle his calloused hand could be as it traced the curve of my cheek.

"And I would be more, lord," I got out when my brain was able to focus on something other than his touch.

"Then let us be handfasted." His palm dropped from my chin to take up my right hand. Clasping it, he drew it up between our faces. "I pledge my troth to you, Firiel, and upon no other will I look until we be wed, and all the days of my life." I repeated the words, with his name in, my voice quavering. When I had finished, he brushed my knuckles with his lips and let my hand fall.

The magnitude of what I'd just done-what we'd just done-hit me like a punch in the stomach. My knees buckled, and I sagged to the ground. Boromir joined me, speaking in a steady, quiet tone, stroking me with his voice. "If ever we come to my city, and she still stands, I shall present you to my father, and you will charm him, Firiel, and all Gondor will love you as I do, for there is no woman like to you in all Middle Earth. And if peace comes, and we both still live, we will be wed in the summer, and you will be the Lady of the White Tower, the Steward's wife when my father passes."

"Many ifs, lord," I pointed out, tilting my head back to look at the gray sky.

"Many ifs." The desolation I had not heard for weeks crept back into his gruff reply.

I leaned my head onto Boromir's shoulder in a silent comfort. He smelled like a man who'd been doing more sweating than washing lately, but I didn't mind, knowing I carried much the same odor myself.

"Firiel." The way he said the name–my name, for I had never been Sarah–made me go both hot and cold.

"My lord– Boromir," I began firmly, glad I wasn't having to push him away, "we are not yet wed, so let there be only kisses between us and, though I am loath to say it, precious few of those."

"I am loath also," he murmured, but when he looked at me, his eyes held no lust.

I returned my head to his shoulder, and he covered my hand with his own. "The others will be wondering what has befallen us."

"They have not so great a need of firewood," he pointed out, causing me to subside.

I do not know how long we sat there, as I drowsed while Boromir stroked my hair, but I stored the memory up in my head, so that I could take it out and look at it when I needed to.

"Firiel." I had come to love that voice in my ear. "If you sleep upright, you will be unfit for travel tomorrow." He stood, and I groaned at the loss of comforting warmth.

"Hang tomorrow," I remember muttering as he bent down to lift me in a rescue carry, an arm under my knees and one around my shoulder. I shut up and curled against him.

Boromir was solid and comforting; the five minutes it took him to get to the boat lasted not nearly long enough. I smelled pipe smoke as we touched shore at camp, and stumbled to my bedroll. Boromir eased down beside me on the ground. I was asleep before I could realize we'd returned without the firewood.


	18. Attack on the River

Chapter Seventeen  
Attack on the River  
  
I woke when Boromir woke; his movement disturbed me. "My lord," I whispered, and when he turned to me the look in his eyes answered my question, but I asked anyway: "Did I dream last night?"  
  
Boromir wrinkled his brow at me. "I know not, Firiel," he replied, at the same volume, "your thoughts are still your own."  
  
I kicked myself mentally, shaking my head. "Did I dream what passed between us last night?"  
  
His face relaxed. "If you did, it was a dream we shared." I liked the idea of sharing dreams with him. Boromir reached the short distance between us to touch my cheek, a small caress but I smiled, taking his hand in mine and squeezing it briefly before both of us turned away to pack up.  
  
We journeyed all that day, and all night, pausing only briefly at dusk to pass around lembas and fresh water. At dawn on the next day we made camp and slept like dead men until noon, when Aragorn roused us to drift until midnight.  
  
This fast pace and the strange hours disagreed with me. Boromir's face grew more haggard the closer we came to our choice. Tired as I was, there were times I could not sleep, so he would hold me and stroke my hair until we fell into sleep together. Seven days out of Lorien the night sky cleared, and the benevolent beams of the crescent moon cheered all our hearts. We paddled with renewed vigor.  
  
On the morning of the eighth day we were still paddling, with somewhat less vigor. I drowsed in the bow of the lead boat, watching the scenery change around me. We'd sailed into a land of rocks and hills. Both banks rose in steep, bramble-covered slopes. To the east and west as far as I could see cowered stubby ridges, like half-hearted mountains.  
  
We stopped for a respite around noon. I split a lembas with Boromir, and we lay down within a handbreadth of each other. He pulled his hood over his face and appeared to sleep, but I sated up at the sky crowded with sad-gray clouds and wheeling birds. I noticed Aragorn watching too.  
  
"Take some rest, Firiel," he said, without looking at me. I bristled at the command, but the Ranger turned to Legolas to ask if the largest bird circling us was an eagle. It looked more like a vulture to me, but the elf called it a hunting eagle. I pulled my blanket over my head, as Aragorn said we would not start until dark.  
  
Dark seemed to arrive as soon as I'd drifted off, but being woken by Boromir's clasping my hand cheered me somewhat. I was learning to cherish these brief touches, as well as the loving glances he sent my way, as signs that I was adored by a man who thought to much of me to do anymore.  
  
The night was still around us. "We shall journey once more by night," Aragorn began, "though this is a part of the River I do not know well. Many mile lie between us and the Rapids of Sarn Gebir, but there are other dangers in the stream." He appointed Sam lookout in the lead boat, and told him to watch for obstacles in the stream.  
  
We hardly used our paddles, but let the current carry us. The moonless night darkened, showcasing the brilliant stars that reflected in the water below us. Beautiful, but quite boring. Around midnight, I was hunched in the stern of the last boat, drowsing, when Sam yelled ahead of us.  
  
My head jerked up, and I saw the rocks looming in the water. Legolas and I attempted to hold the boat back with our paddles, but we were swept left. The channel was clear there, though sharp rock teeth guarded the river all around us. Our boat bumped into the other two as Boromir shouted, "Aragorn! It is madness to try the Rapids by night! No boat can survive Sarn Gebir even by day."  
  
Aragorn ordered us back. I struggled to hold my end of the boat still while Legolas turned us around. Once turned, we made precious little headway, being drawn closer to the eastern bank. "Paddle, all of you!" Boromir called. "We will be driven on the rocks." My heart twisted with fear, but I pushed it aside. From the shore came the sound of bows. I ducked as arrows flew close over our heads. "Orcs!" cried Legolas in Elvish. Gimli echoed him in the common tongue.  
  
I dared to sit up again, the better to paddle, trying to keep myself from worrying about Boromir. More arrows whistled above us, or struck the water around the boats. My arms ached, and we didn't seem to be getting anywhere; but the current slowly lessened, and we moved away from the eastern shore. We turned west, in the middle of the stream once more. Under overhanging branches on that bank, we caught our breath.  
  
Legolas leaped from the boat, barely jarring it. Once on solid ground, he shrugged his bow off, looking around for an orcish target. Shrieks came from the opposite shore, but nothing moved. Clouds billowed up, obscuring the starlight. My heart chilled, and I looked once again to Boromir.  
  
I heard Legolas whisper something, but my eyes were fixed on the shade flying out of the cloudbanks, eating up all light as it descended upon us. Orc shouts greeted the foul thing, like a dragon with bat's wings and the neck of a brontosaurus.  
  
At last, Legolas loosed his arrow. The monster fell screaming from the sky into the darkness of the east. I felt sure the orcs on the opposite shore were swearing at us, but they sent no more arrows. When Legolas sprang back into his seat, I reached forward to grasp his shoulder in silent congratulation.  
  
We waited for perhaps fifteen minutes before Aragorn led us back upstream. Keeping to the shore, we found a little bay guarded by a steep bank and a few scraggly trees. There we moored the boats to await daylight.  
  
There was no place for camp or fire, so we huddled where we sat. Or most of us did. While Gimli was exclaiming over Legolas' archery, I vaulted out of the boat, splashing the short distance over to Boromir. He got out to meet me.  
  
I had intended to ask, casually, because everyone else was listening, "You are unharmed, my lord?" What I actually got out was something like, 'You mumph--" because Boromir crushed me to him.  
  
I gave only token protest as his arms encircled me, and then I did my best to break his ribs, too, resting my cheek on the broad chest. After a moment he held me at arm's length—to see if I had sustained any arrow wounds, I suppose.  
  
"I am unscathed, lord," I protested, "though perhaps a bit bruised." Boromir's face fell instantly. I hurried to reassure him. "It was in jest, lord!"  
  
The man of Gondor cleared his throat, trying to look as if he'd known all along. "Do you see now why I did not wish you to come along with us?" he growled.  
  
I replied soberly, "Yea, lord." He shook me once, for good measure, but there was no malice in it. We returned to our boats, and I could not have said who was the more reluctant. 


	19. Choices

Chapter Eighteen  
Choices  
  
I awoke when Legolas shook my shoulder, wrapped in a suffocating fog. Sam, it appeared, liked fog as little as I did, but he pointed out that it was hiding us from the orcs. I had to agree.  
  
Then Aragorn felt the need to dampen an already damp day by commenting that if the fog didn't lift, we wouldn't be able to find the path, and that if we couldn't find the path, we couldn't get past Sarn Gebir and to the Emyn Muil.  
  
Boromir then spoke up and said, quite sensibly, I thought, that why didn't we just abandon the boats and strike out from the western shore.  
  
Aragorn agreed that that was fine—if the Fellowship was going to Minas Tirith, which we hadn't yet agreed to. He added that the Entwash, which we'd come to first, going west, was boggy. Very dangerous in the fog. The River, the Ranger concluded, was the path to keep to while we could.  
  
To which Boromir responded that the Enemy held the eastern shore, and that if we passed the Tindrock, as he called Tol Brandir, what would we do then. Jump off the Falls to land in the marshes?  
  
I stifled a giggle, as both men were showing signs of temper. "No," said Aragorn, his voice gravelly with control. "No, we will carry the boats and baggage to the bottom of the Falls. Have you forgotten, Boromir, or do you not know of the great North Stair, hewn when the great kings of Gondor made the seat on Amon Hen? I would stand in that place again before I decide my course. And there we may see some sign to guide us." He turned away to answer some question of Sam's.  
  
Boromir scowled at being spoken to like this. He stepped out of the boat, nearly turning Merry and Pippin into the water, and stalked up the rocky bank to perch on its summit. After a moment, I followed, loving and dog- like.  
  
He looked like he'd expected me. "Firiel, I will set out this morning, if you will come with me. You are not bound to the Ring." He spoke quietly, so the others could not hear.  
  
"But you are, my lord," I said, laying my hand over his, "and I would not have you foresworn."  
  
"My honor is a little thing beside the fate of Gondor." Boromir drew his knees up to his chin.  
  
"So you will bring your city two bodies, my lord? Presuming we reach Minas Tirith." I tried to play devil's advocate kindly and with respect.  
  
"That is not all I mean to bring," he muttered, but did not elaborate, and I did not ask for an explanation.  
  
Instead, I grasped his hand and said, "I stand with you, lord. Wherever our paths may lead, I stand with you. But if you would hear my counsel--" I stopped, unsure.  
  
"I would hear it, Firiel," Boromir assured me, grasping back, "for may not a squire counsel his lord, or a lady her husband?"  
  
"Am I squire or lady to you?" I asked, momentarily distracted.  
  
"You are both, and more than either." He stared up into the clouds of fog as if looking for inspiration. "I do not know."  
  
"My counsel, lord, is that you stay with the Fellowship until they decide upon a course. If that course lead to Gondor, so much the better. If not, then I suppose we must strike out on our own."  
  
"That is well," Boromir said, giving my hand a final squeeze before standing. "Come, I mislike their watching." We skittered back down the bank, dislodging rocks large and small. My staff helped me remain upright, and Boromir had a swordsman's posture.  
  
"What is the Ringbearer's decision?" he asked, once we were back in the boats.  
  
I had to admire Frodo's courage as he met Boromir's eyes, saying simply, "I will go with Aragorn."  
  
Boromir looked around at all of us once more. "The Men of Minas Tirith do not abandon friends in need, and my strength will be needed to reach the Tindrock. I will go to that tall isle, but no further, and from there will I depart for Gondor, if the company's destination lies elsewhere."  
  
It was midmorning. The sunlight danced down through the now-patchy fog, turning it golden. "Legolas and I," Aragorn announced, "will search along the shore for some way to carry both boats and baggage to the smooth water beyond the Rapids. Elvish boats will not sink, perhaps, but we will. None have ever yet come through Sarn Gebir alive." He informed us that the Men of Gondor had made no roads in this area, but that there was a portage-way some where on this shore, if they could find it.  
  
"Few boats have I seen come out of the North. Orcs prowl the eastern shore. Our peril will grow with every mile, even should we find a path," Boromir argued, arresting their departure.  
  
"Peril lies before us on every southbound road." Aragorn's voice was patient but testy. "Wait for us one day. You will know that the evil you foretold has befallen us if we do not return. Then take for yourselves a new leader and follow him." I knew who was getting my vote, in that case.  
  
The man and elf disappeared into the fog. Boromir's chin sank to his chest in brooding thought, which I did not disturb. The hobbits started a game of pitch and toss with bits of lembas, making Pippin eat the ones that fell in the water, until Gimli stopped them. Robbed of entertainment, I dozed uncomfortably.  
  
Only a few hours had passed when Aragorn and Legolas returned. They had found a path, and a landing, but a short distance away. We were only half a mile above the Rapids, and they were only a mile long. We'd just have to get the boats and baggage to the old portage-way, which they'd also found. The scouting party, however, had not found the entrance off the River, so, of course, we'd have to leave the water here, and carry everything.  
  
Boromir scowled. "Even if we were all Men, that would not be easy." I hoped he meant the race and not the gender.  
  
"Yet we will try it," replied Aragorn. I could see the two of them getting ready for a grudge match.  
  
Gimli spoke up. I wanted to cheer. "We will go on. A Man's legs may tire, but not a Dwarf's!"  
  
That seemed to settle it. First the baggage, then the boats were carried up to the top of the bank where Boromir and I had so lately sat. From there, we hauled everything over a sloping, rocky waste pocked with pitfalls and briars, all of it soggy.  
  
Aragorn and Boromir handled the boats while the rest of us muddled along with the baggage. All of it was placed at the top of the portage-way. Moving everything took two complete trips, while the River, which we could not see, raged at us.  
  
The portage-way was almost cute, and certainly a welcome change of scenery. It curved back to the water, seemingly carved by the water itself, and ended in a tiny pond. We bathed our sweaty faces in the cool water. Already dusk had fallen.  
  
We sat by the River, stupidly tired and morose. "Here we must pass another night," said Boromir. "We need sleep, and we are to pass the Argonath tomorrow."  
  
"Now we must rest as much as we can. If this weather holds, we shall pass unseen tomorrow, even by day." Aragorn cast a meaningful look at Boromir and I when he mentioned that two were needed to watch.  
  
"Wake me when it's my turn." I whispered, snuggling against Boromir's side. He patted my head as I drifted off.  
  
I do not believe he would have woken me at all. As it was, seeping damp drew me from my dreams, about an hour before dawn. I sat up, noticing that my blanket had replicated, and that Boromir's had mysteriously disappeared. He hunched in the rain, water droplets glistening in his hair and beard. My attempts at returning his blanket politely met with no success. Exasperated, I threw both his and mine over his head and sat up, yawning.  
  
When Boromir reemerged, he insisted upon sharing. He also warmed my hands considerably with his own. But he did not sleep, which worried me.  
  
The drizzle stopped, and we started off at first light. Whereupon the rain began again, with malice. We kept close to the western shore, but the fog was taking its leave like a guest who has stayed to long and knows it. I helped Legolas and Gimli cover the boat and baggage to prevent flooding. We drifted on.  
  
I huddled in the prow, hating rain and rivers and boating in general. As if in answer to my fervent wish, the clouds retreated to be replaced by a brilliant sun set in a gloriously blue sky. I believed in miracles.  
  
Unfolding myself, I looked around. Our boat sped through a ravine, the sheer rock walls casting ominous shadows over us as we picked up speed. In the distance, the river narrowed, and on either side stood two-I squinted–pillars.  
  
"The Argonath! The Pillars of the Kings," called Aragorn, with no heed to listeners who might wish us ill. "Hold the boats to the middle of the stream."  
  
At first, I wondered if two giants guarding the River had been turned to stone, one on either side of the water. Their left hands reached out to us in warning, not friendship. Crowned in crumbling rock, they held battle- axes, challenging those who would enter their kingdom. I wondered who the megaliths were meant to be. Aragorn, proud in the stern of his boat, was explaining it to Frodo, but I listened to Boromir, whose voice was softer but no less reverent.  
  
"Of old this was Gondor's northern border, guarded by the forms of her first kings, Isildur and his brother, Anarion." The statues seemed no longer foreboding. Instead, they extended their hands in benediction to me, a squire of their kingdom. 'And to be wife of her Captain-General,' I reminded myself, which finished erasing my bad mood.  
  
Our boats, carried by the racing water, shot out of the canyon into bright winter light. The current dissipated into an oblong lake. "Nen Hithoel," Legolas whispered. It was set with trees as gems are set in a ring, and crowned at the opposite end with three peaks. In the distance roared the Falls of Rauros.  
  
Over this cacophony, Aragorn again played tour guide. The middle mountain was Tol Brandir, and those to the left and right were Amon Hen and Amon Lhaw, respectively. They were called the hills of Sight and Hearing for good reason, too. In the ancient days, there had been watchtowers upon them. We would reach the hills by nightfall.  
  
Drifting in the lake, we rested a bit. I munched a lembas reflectively as the sun set. I had wasted the time given me to keep the Fellowship together, and now it seemed that I would have a hand in splitting it. Would have to choose between my love . . . and my friends.  
  
For they were my friends. At some time, either in Lorien or on the River, my attitude toward them and, I hoped, their attitudes toward me had slipped from tolerance to genuine liking. True, Aragorn could still puncture me with my own faults, and the hobbits became annoying at times, but I did not want to abandon them.  
  
Not even for Boromir, whom I loved beyond life's ending. I had begun to grasp his priorities and, while I did not resent my ranking just below his city, the fact that he would do anything to keep me (and it) safe worried me. I did not suspect his motives, only his means.  
  
We camped on a lawn that sloped down from Amon Hen to the River. Aragorn called in Parth Galen. It reminded me of the grassy banks of Lorien that we'd set out from ten days ago. It seemed like ten years. 


	20. Encounters

Chapter Nineteen  
Encounters  
  
I woke to an angry dawn. Black clouds skulked low in a red sunrise. Everyone was glad when the orb moved to perch on Tol Brandir, gilding its peak.  
  
We made a meager breakfast of lembas and leftover game and spring water, and then Aragorn addressed everyone: "Now we must choose what will become of this Fellowship that has traveled so long together? Shall we go with Boromir to the wars in the west, or to the east and the Dark Lord's lands? Or is now the time for the breaking of our company? We have not overlong for counsel. The Enemy may now patrol both shores." No one spoke. I shivered, and Boromir's hand appeared in the small of my back. Still, silence.  
  
"Frodo." Aragorn's voice was low and gravelly with something I could not name. "The burden is laid on you. The Council named you to bear the Ring, and its path you alone can choose. I am not Gandalf, that I may advise you, and I know not his mind on this matter or for this hour. Were he here, you might still have to decide. It is your fate."  
  
Frodo spoke slowly after a little while, and my heart went out to the poor hobbit. "Haste may be needed, but I cannot choose. I will speak in an hour's time. Let me alone to think." Aragorn gave his assent, and, after a moment, Frodo wandered into the trees at the foot of Amon Hen. I tried not to stare after him, but Boromir followed the Ringbearer with his eyes, looking curiously hungry.  
  
We sat in silence for I didn't know how much of Frodo's hour. I shivered silently until Boromir got the hint and stumped off, muttering something about firewood. Five minutes later, I followed, choosing a path perpendicular to his, hoping to circle around once out of the Fellowship's scrutiny.  
  
The gathering of firewood had become our task, and none of the others ever attempted to join us at it. I suppose they realized we needed time alone to...do whatever they thought we did, which wasn't really much.  
  
From my vantage point from atop Amon Hen, I looked down through the trees, finding, to my surprise, that Boromir had found Frodo. They appeared to be in conversation.  
  
I frowned and walked down the hill to do a bit of eavesdropping, but something stopped me out of their sight and my hearing. Perhaps it was Boromir's leaping up and beginning to pace. As he strode back and forth, his voice rose, so that I could hear his words quite clearly.  
  
"So I have heard from Mithrandir and Lord Elrond, and so they have taught you to say also! It may be true for them; I know not of Elves and Wizards, but the Men of Minas Tirith will not be corrupted. We do not desire power, only the strength to defend our homes, our families! The Ring would give us that strength. What could be more fitting than to use the Enemy's power against him? Victory is given to those who take it. If Aragorn will not, why not Boromir? With the power of Command, I could roust the foes of Mordor and rally all men to me!" Boromir went on in this vein for some minutes, ignoring Frodo.  
  
I wanted so badly to believe his stirring words. He said, quite rightly, that we had no reason to hope for the Ring's destruction, but my faith in Frodo's mission held. I tiptoed closer, in time to hear Boromir address the hobbit.  
  
"Do you not see, friend?" His look turned compassionate. "You are afraid, you say. None blame you. But is it not your sense that revolts at this prospect?"  
  
"No, my courage," Frodo answered. "But my mind is clearer after hearing you."  
  
"Then you will go to Gondor?" Boromir's face lit with a frightening eagerness.  
  
"You misunderstand me." My blood chilled at Frodo's statement, and I edged farther up the hill.  
  
Boromir couldn't take a hint. He offered his city as a haven, a place to regroup, but Frodo would have none of it. He stepped out from under the friendly hand on his shoulder. Boromir protested, which was endearing but unsubtle.  
  
"I need your Ring," he said simply. "May we not at least try my plan? Lend me the Ring!"  
  
"It is mine to bear," Frodo persisted.  
  
Boromir turned to insults, and then to demands. Part of me had known that this side of him existed, but he had been careful never to direct it had me, and I did not like it. Frodo backed away, eyes wary. Seeing this, Boromir softened his tone, affecting reason, but when that failed, he lunged at Frodo, his face twisted with rage.  
  
I scrambled down the slope, hoping to stop Boromir if I could. Before I reached them, however, Frodo vanished, with the aid of the Ring, I supposed. Boromir gaped, and then scrabbled about trying to find him, shouting at the invisible hobbit. He tripped and sprawled in the grass, and a change of heart seemed to overtake him.  
  
"What have I said?" he cried. "Frodo, come back!" But I walked up instead, looking down at the man by my feet. Boromir raised his head, his hair and beard in disarray. I planted my staff next to him, waiting for an explanation, aware for the first time that it was a weapon, and one I knew how to use.  
  
"Firiel?" Boromir stood, dusted himself off, and looked at me defiantly. Our nearly touched, and I could smell that morning's meat on his breath, but I remained where I was, solid, expecting the Middle Earth equivalent of, "Honey, I can explain..." Instead, "Where is Frodo?"  
  
"I know not, lord," I answered, "and did I know, I would not tell you." It was rude, but it was true, and at the moment I did not feel like being polite. Boromir did not look as though he thought he deserved courtesy, either.  
  
"You would be right not to." He had the grace to look chagrined.  
  
"My lord, your honor is my own, and I will not have you drag it in the dirt while I watch." I reached up to brush away a leaf that still clung in his hair, and he wrapped his arms around me.  
  
"My honor is a small thing beside my wish to see my city safe. To see you safe," he growled into my hair. "You should be safe, Firiel, not here, fighting."  
  
"I fight because I wish to, lord," I replied, trying to hug him and keep hold of my staff at the same time, failing to mention the fact that I hadn't actually been in any combat to date. "And to stay with you."  
  
"To stay with me." He pulled back, grasping my shoulders. "And you will have your way, Firiel, will you not?"  
  
I grinned in spite of myself. "Yea, lord."  
  
Boromir bent his head. "Since I came of age my father has paraded women past me, comely maidens and young widows, any one of whom would have made a fine wife, and I would have none of them. I chose a stubborn, dowerless girl in men's dress who dogs my steps and my nights." He shook me until my teeth rattled.  
  
"Um," I began, not knowing if I should apologize or not, gauging Boromir's scowl. "Perhaps you would have done better to keep me as your squire, lord." I wilted, hoping he had been speaking in jest. The description did rather fit me.  
  
"Oh, no. For not even the Captain-General of Gondor may use his squire so." He bent and captured my mouth in a long kiss. Fireworks erupted behind my eyes and my knees buckled as my mind ceased to function momentarily.  
  
When he finally pulled away, I said shakily, "That's probably a good thing."  
  
He ignored me. "Do you see now why I seek to use the Ring?"  
  
"The Ring may save your city, my lord, but it will taint and corrupt all that you do." I pointedly left all mention of myself out.  
  
"So you have been told," he muttered, "but who can say if it is truth."  
  
I played my final card, feeling horrible about it. "I will not wed a man who wields such a thing of evil." His body went rigid against mine, but I did not amend my statement.  
  
"So that is how it must be." His monotone broke my heart, and nearly my will. "Would you be a cotholder's wife as gladly as the Lady of Gondor?"  
  
"If you were that cotholder, lord," I replied. A chill spiked up my backbone, and I looked around nervously. "Should we not return to the others now?" Boromir scowled, and to take his mind away, I said, "Gondor may be saved by other means, lord." It did not work; I could tell he did not believe me.  
  
Silence greeted our arrival back at camp, and Frodo had not returned. Boromir seated himself with the others not looking at anyone. I stood behind him.  
  
"Where were you?" Aragorn addressed us both. "Have you seen Frodo?"  
  
I allowed Boromir to answer. He gave only the briefest summary of the encounter I'd observed, saying he'd gotten angry. I wanted to prod him in the back with my staff, but refrained.  
  
Aragorn guessed, I think, that there was more to the tale. "Is that all you have to say?" he asked with a hard stare. Boromir replied that it was all he would say for the moment.  
  
Sam had a fit, questioning Boromir's scruples and Frodo's actions. Merry, always the sensible one, pointed that Frodo wasn't likely to keep the Ring on for very long. Pippin merely clambered to know where Frodo was. Confusion, I had noticed, was typically how the youngest hobbit dealt with obstacles.  
  
Aragorn thought to ask Boromir when he'd last seen the Ringbearer. I didn't know; Boromir guessed an hour, or half that. Then, to my surprise, he hid his face in his hands, shaking with silent grief.  
  
"An hour," Sam shouted, and ran off.  
  
Aragorn tried in vain to organize everyone into search parties, but by this time Merry and Pippin had followed Sam, all three shouting, "Frodo!" at the tops of their lungs. Legolas and Gimli took off as well, with considerably less noise. I knelt beside Boromir as Aragorn told us to go after Merry and Pippin and protect them. The Ranger followed Sam.  
  
"My lord," I shook Boromir's shoulder. When he didn't respond, I moved in front of him and slipped my hands under his to draw them away from his face. "Come, lord, we must find the hobbits."  
  
He stood, face smoothing unnaturally fast, and ran down the path that the two had taken. I followed, staff at the ready. 


	21. Farewell to Boromir

Chapter Twenty  
Farewell to Boromir  
  
Merry and Pippin were not hard to find. Their shouts had turned to cries for help, but at least they had had the sense to keep shouting. They had also had the sense to stand back to back and draw their short swords, surrounded as they were by an ever-growing circle of what I supposed must be orcs.  
  
The beasts were nearly my height, with bared fangs and armored skin as black as a night without hope of stars. The weapons with which they menaced the two hobbits looked made of cast iron, but were nevertheless long and sharp. Merry tried to maintain a brave face, but Pippin had begun to whimper and lower his blade.  
  
Boromir descended on them with a cry of "Gondor!" his sword everywhere at once. I, coming behind him, got in a few good blows of my own, striking upwards, as he had shown me, to shove the butt of my staff hard into the monstrous faces. I suppose some part of me was afraid, just as a bit of me knew I might die here, but in the back of my mind was the knowledge that Boromir would not let that happen, and I made up my mind to offer him the same surety.  
  
One orc raked the side of my face with his claws, after I bashed his sword out of his grasp, and another's scimitar bit into my right bicep before Boromir hacked him down. Nothing life threatening, only painfully distracting.  
  
Merry and Pippin acquitted themselves well, having, I supposed, overcome their fear upon our arrival. The battle-light in Boromir's eyes kept them well away from him, though. His fighting style was a blur of brutal beauty, clean lines and short stops. I wished I could have had the leisure to observe it more closely.  
  
However, he had drilled into me, often painfully, what happens when one lets one's attention wander from one's opponent, so I concentrated on the orc currently trying to skewer me with his spear. Boromir leapt to my aid, and a great many things happened at once.  
  
As he dispatched my orc, I saw a black-fletched arrow blossom in his left shoulder. He paused only for a moment before switching his sword to a one- handed grip. For my part, since the arrows had come from behind, I whirled, and ducked as another arrow parted my hair for me.  
  
More orcs emerged from the trees in the direction of the River. The four in the lead stood heads above the pack behind them, and as they came they notched more arrows to their black recurved bows. The lead orc sent one shirring past my head, and I scrambled backwards toward Boromir and the hobbits.  
  
As I did, he unslung the great silver-inlaid horn that hung over his hip, raising it and winding it, a blast that shook the trees and drowned the noise from the Falls. He blew again, and I thought they would hear it in Lothlorien.  
  
One of the orcs with a bow shouted something in a vowel-less language to the beasts already in battle with us. The back of my head translated it, and I briefly, fervently thanked God for the unsought aid; the orc had growled to his fellows that the halflings were to be taken alive.  
  
A craven thought welled up in my mind: why didn't Boromir and I use Merry and Pippin as shields? I quashed the impulse and turned to run toward Boromir, meaning to communicate the orc's words to him. I had only gone a few steps when my right leg collapsed. I sprawled hard in the grass, and as the orcs crashed past me, one of them kicked the gash in my arm with his iron-shod boot. Pain crackled behind my ears, and I suppose I fainted.  
  
When I came to, the glade was eerily silent. Rolling onto my knees, I looked around. The orcs had not bothered to collect their dead; the grass was strewn with hideous bodies. A cry of horror escaped my lips as I saw that I was not alone among the living. A figure slumped against a tree ten yards away from me. It was Boromir.  
  
I dragged myself over to him. Something was terribly wrong below the inside of my right knee, but I didn't bother to stop and check it. My sole concerns were Boromir's ashen face and the arrows that riddled his chest. "My lord?" I said, touching his cheek. "Boromir?"  
  
With effort, he opened his eyes and, with still more effort, spoke. "Firiel. The orcs have taken the hobbits. They thought you dead, as did I."  
  
"I am not dead," I said, somewhat redundantly. "And you must save your strength. You will need it to heal."  
  
"No, Firiel." His hand lifted to graze my cheek, fingers coming away damp. I had not realized that I wept. "I...failed you, and my city. Go to Gondor, Firiel." He coughed once, a wet hack. "Gondor."  
  
"I will go, lord," I promised. "I will go, I swear it." As I said the words, what I supposed must be the traditional oath of fealty bubbled into my brain. I spoke quickly, but clearly, afraid that he would stop me, or pass beyond hearing my words. "Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Captain-General of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Firiel of Lorien." Of Lorien no more, I thought as I leaned forward to press a kiss on his lips. Of Gondor.  
  
Boromir seemed determined to give the lord's matching vow. Haltingly he replied, "This do I hear, Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love--" He closed his eyes and gasped. "I love you, Firiel." The breath left him, and Boromir did not open his eyes again.  
  
Working as if in a dream, I broke the arrow shafts off and covered Boromir with his cloak, tucking it in around his shoulders. Now no wounds were visible, and he appeared asleep. I told myself that this was so, that he had fallen only into slumber. I curled beside him, my head on his chest, trying to sleep myself, that he might wake me.  
  
But my heart knew that the body I clung to was not the man I had loved, not anymore. I soaked the elven cloak with salt water. "Boromir," I whispered, "come back."  
  
That was how Aragorn found me. "Thus passes the heir of Denethor," he said, dropping to his knees beside Boromir's body. "This is a bitter end," the Ranger added, half to himself. "The Fellowship is ruined. I have failed. Gandalf's trust in me was vain. What shall we do now?"  
  
I looked up as he covered his down-turned face with one hand, seeing for the first time the man Aragorn, who had taken up responsibilities he'd neither asked for nor wanted, and did not feel equal to them. After a moment he straightened, uncovered Boromir's right hand, and clasped it in silent farewell.  
  
At some point, Legolas and Gimli arrived silently from the west. Both bore signs of battle, and Legolas's quiver was empty. The elf went to stand beside Aragorn, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Gimli and I slew many orcs in the wood, but our weapons would have been of more use here. We heard the Horn too late, it seems, to save you from harm."  
  
"I am unhurt," Aragorn said, rising. "Firiel's wounds are the gravest. Boromir is dead. He was killed in defense of the hobbits while I searched Amon Hen."  
  
"Where are Merry and Pippin?" Gimli wanted to know. "And where is Frodo?"  
  
Everyone looked to me. "Merry and Pippin are taken by the orcs. They will be kept alive. I know not of Frodo and Sam," I answered shortly, in no mood for questions.  
  
Aragorn's gaze turned sharp. "How do you know the hobbits will not be harmed?"  
  
"One orc shouted to the others to keep them alive. I have knowledge of their tongue, but I know not how I came by it." A strange ringing filled my head, and as I watched Aragorn open his mouth, the world slowly tilted sideways.  
  
I opened my eyes, blinking into the grass, wondering how I'd come to be lying on my stomach. When I tried to roll over, a hand pressed into the small of my back. "Lie still." Aragorn's voice had returned to its permanently neutral setting.  
  
"What-" my voice cracked as the pain in my leg materialized. "What happened?"  
  
"The Valar watched over you. If the shot had been higher or the archer slower, you would not have the use of the leg." Startled, I twisted my head to survey the damage. The arrow had torn deep, through cloth and flesh, but it was still only a graze, its size disproportional to the amount of blood and pain it put forth.  
  
I watched Aragorn untuck my leggings from my right boot and use his dagger to slit the cloth up to my knee. He worked gently and methodically, talking as he did. "I do not think the arrow was poisoned, but it was none too clean, and for the washing of the wound we have only river water."  
  
I shuddered, wondering about the disparities between modern and Middle Earth hygiene. Turning away to gaze over the River, I attempted to prop myself up on my elbows. My right arm protested, and an involuntary cry escaped my lips. Clamping my mouth shut, I laid the arm down carefully and then asked, "Where are the others?"  
  
"They have gone to search in the wood for what healing herbs may be found. I have with me enough for a rude dressing, but no medicines. We must bind them up, and pray that neither your arm nor your leg festers. A week or two of rest and healing would not go amiss, either, but we have not the time or the leisure."  
  
"You mean to go after the hobbits, then?" I inquired, my teeth gritted once again, this time against his ministrations.  
  
"Yes, but the question may remain: which hobbits." He glanced up, and I saw that Legolas and Gimli had returned. The elf crouched beside me, handing Aragorn a bundle of slick green leaves. The Ranger nodded his thanks.  
  
Gimli stumped over to us, axe in hand, and peered at my leg. As everyone else was watching the performance, I twisted around to do the same. Shredding the herb, he packed it into the gash, stifling the blood flow. His touch could not have been defter, but I stifled a yell and bit my lip at the intrusion. Ripping off the sliced fabric above my knee, Aragorn tore it into strips, passing them back around my leg.  
  
Looking up, he met my eyes. "This will hurt." And he tightened the knots.  
  
I had always imagined that being wounded in battle would involve lying back, fetchingly pale, enduring the pain with a stoic determination that brought tears to the eyes of all who beheld me. I was wrong. I yelled, the pain stripping my throat raw. My only consolation was that what burst out of my throat was not a girlish scream. Still, it was nothing to be proud of. Legolas and Gimli hid their smirks quite well.  
  
The pain in my leg did not diminish when Aragorn finished with those bandages and moved on to my arm. The gash there was less serious, he said, and I agreed. His tending to it only caused me to bite through my lip to remain silent. The Ranger handed me a scrap of cloth to wipe the trickle of blood from my chin and sat back on his heels, eyes critical. "Can you stand?"  
  
I gaped at him. "Wha- Yes, of course. Where is my staff?"  
  
Legolas went to fetch it while Aragorn hauled me up bodily by my good left arm. I could now see over the small knoll that had blocked my view and through to the carnage that my companions had dragged me away from. The cloak-covered body was still propped against its tree. Memories, held back by unconsciousness and pain, flooded back into my head. I staggered, and Aragorn caught me. I reached out for my staff, shook him off, and hobbled over to Boromir.  
  
My leg felt like someone had replaced the bone with a hot poker, but I kept going, navigating my way around orcish carcasses. Boromir...Boromir. My mind wept the name. The others came up behind me as I stood staring. Aragorn and Legolas each put a hand on my shoulder, and I am sure Gimli would have, as well, if he'd been able to reach.  
  
"We must tend the slain," began Legolas after a moment, "for it would not do to leave him here among the beasts he slew." There followed some discussion regarding how we might do this. I did not participate, merely stared numbly at the object in question.  
  
Aragorn's idea, to lay him in one of the boats and give him to the River, won out, and I acquiesced. I was, however, less happy about the rest of his plan, placing the orcs' broken weapons and shattered shields in the boat as well, but I said nothing and did not take part in the search for such tokens. In the process, Aragorn retrieved Merry's and Pippin's dirks, and Legolas refilled his quiver, so I suppose it was not totally useless.  
  
The Ranger also noted aloud that the orcs had not all come from Mordor, and that not all were orcs. The four goblin archers who had turned the tide against Boromir and myself carried shields marked with a white hand, and their helmets were marked with S's, both signs which puzzled Aragorn. Dismissing Gimli's suggestion that the rune stood for Sauron, he turned to me. "Does your knowledge of the orc tongue provide answer?"  
  
I shook my head. "Well," he said, turning back, "it may be Saruman's mark. If so, Gandalf was correct: Isengard is tainted, and the West with it. Saruman also may know of our travels and of Gandalf's fall, through orcs from Moria or by other means."  
  
"We have not the time for riddles," Gimli grumbled. "Let us tend Boromir!"  
  
"We must answer the riddles, Master Dwarf, if we are to chose our course rightly," Aragorn replied.  
  
"If they have answers," muttered the dwarf. 


	22. Leavetaking

Chapter Twenty-One  
  
Leavetaking  
  
With his axe, Gimli cut boughs from the surrounding trees as if chopping more orc necks, and out of the branches and our cloaks we fashioned a stretcher on which to lay Boromir's body. Painfully, I took up a corner of it with my right hand and, for once, no one objected.  
  
We set it down on the riverbank, and, after a silent conversation with Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli returned to Parth Galen for the boats. I ignored the discussion and went to sit by the River, gazing into the swift gray water and ignoring the pain under my knee and the ache in my heart.  
  
Aragorn dropped silently beside me, and when I did notice his presence, I ignored him. When he spoke, I tried not to hear. "I had thought you a frail maiden, sent by the Lady to keep our minds away from our troubles, and Boromir's desire from the Ring. I see now that she had perhaps a higher purpose, for frail you could not be named even by the most unjust judge. You have been tested in battle, and have not broken, even when pain is coupled with the loss of one you loved."  
  
"Love," I corrected, my voice cracking. "I love him still."  
  
"As do I." I turned my face to Aragorn at last, and saw tear tracks fresh in the in the grime on his face. "He was my brother and friend as he was your lord and love."  
  
His words undid me. I drew my legs painfully up to my chest and bent my head to soak the knees of my leggings with salt water. I'd cried like that when they'd brought my mother home, and never since. I had gathered up my pain since then, and now it poured out in a hot, wet rage.  
  
Aragorn passed an arm around my back and gathered me to himself, murmuring soft elvish nothings into my hair. I imagined he calmed horses in much the same way, but I was glad for the comfort, forming as it did a sharp contrast to my hours after seeing Mum's body.  
  
I'd locked myself in my room and cried for three hours, then tried to slit my wrists. It hadn't worked, though, because I could barely see through the unceasing flood of tears, and my hand had been shaking too badly to hold anything sharp. Finally, I'd given up, dried my eyes, and gone downstairs, swearing never to let another person hurt me that badly again. It hadn't worked.  
  
We sat together until Legolas and Gimli returned with the boats, and with a tale to tell. "We found only two boats," Legolas called, leaping to the bank and then turning back to help Gimli out.  
  
Aragorn inquired if the orcs had been there, and Gimli, puffing, replied that they had seen no tracks and no spoilage, and that he did not believe so. Still, Aragorn said he would look.  
  
I watched as they lifted Boromir into one on the boats, folding his cloak for a pillow. He did indeed appear asleep. I had loved to watch his slumber, that total relaxation of façade and guard. Boromir had appeared another man, yet I had seen him leap from a sound sleep instantly, sword in hand, alert and aware, ready for anything. Now he would never rise again.  
  
Remaining on land when Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli piled into one boat to tow the bier toward the Falls, I followed them from the shore. They paddled slowly, whether from grief or because of the combined weight, I did not know. Past Parth Galen and south, into sight of Tol Brandir, fiery in the sinking sun, I dragged myself along.  
  
The spray from the Falls sparkled over the water, and their rumble shook the air. Into this miasma Aragorn loosed the funeral boat, and it sailed into the heart of the sun before finally disappearing. My chin sunk upon my chest, my eyes filled once more, and I crumpled to the ground. After battling the current for a long moment, the boat pulled closer to shore, allowing me to hear Aragorn's voice raised above the roar of Rauros.  
  
He sang of a search for someone who would never return, to whom even the wind had said its final farewell. My voice is a husky, toneless alto, and I have no skill with rhyme or meter, but through my grief I could see one way left to me to honor my fallen love. I slung my pack onto the ground and pulled out the silver flute. Catching the tune, I returned it to him, pouring all of my sorrow and love into the descant. Legolas took the second verse and then Aragorn sang again, speaking of each Wind in turn except the East, which blew from Mordor.  
  
The wind, which happened to be blowing north, carried away our final, falling note, and we returned silently to Parth Galen. Once back on the lawn, Aragorn began his Ranger act, canvassing the greensward for hobbit footprints. "No orcs have been here," he reported, "but that is small surety. We have too badly mangled the trail with our own steps to tell if any of the hobbits returned." Leaping down the slope, he examined the mud on the stream bank. "Here are clear prints, and those of a hobbit, as well. But why one should wade into the water and then back I cannot say."  
  
"More riddles!" Gimli threw up his hands.  
  
Aragorn ignored him in favor of returning to the campsite and looking the baggage over. He raised a shout. "Sam's pack is missing, and one other. So they have gone by boat, master and servant together. Sam would not be left behind, even on an errand as perilous as Frodo's."  
  
"Strange, then," Gimli pointed out, "that we should be so left."  
  
"Strange, but brave on Frodo's part. Knowing he must go to Mordor, he would not lead any friend to share his fate. His resolve was not so strong this morning, though: something decided it for him."  
  
Had I not needed both of my feet under me, I would have scuffed my toe in the dirt. I would not speak ill of the dead, nor of the one I loved, even though I knew that his loss of control had forced Frodo's hand. And perhaps Sam's, as well.  
  
Gimli paced about, making small chopping motions with his axe until Legolas put a hand on his shoulder to still him. "We follow Frodo, or we hunt down the orcs, with little hope of finding either quarry. We have lost precious time already."  
  
"That time could not have been spent otherwise." Aragorn did not look at me. "Time we have not to spare, but time I must have to think, that I may chose rightly, and undo some part of the evil done this day." He stood awhile in thought. "We shall follow the orcs," he said at last. "Merry and Pippin need our aid. So may Frodo, but he has also need of stealth. Two may pass where six cannot, especially in the shadow of Mordor. The use of the Fellowship is ended, and we have need of haste." Gray eyes bored into me. "Can you run?"  
  
"I can run," I replied, hoping he would not ask for an exhibition.  
  
We carried the last boat into the woods and hid all the gear that could be spared beneath it. I retained most of my small pack. Then we returned to the glade where Boromir had fallen. It did not take the skills of a Ranger to find the orcs' trail.  
  
They had hacked a great swath through tree and undergrowth alike, stretching far into the forest. Legolas touched each of the slashed branches around us mournfully, as if farewelling departed friends.  
  
"They have a long start," Gimli grumbled again.  
  
"We will all need strength, and endurance, if we are to have hope of catching them. But with hope or without, we will follow. Firiel," he looked to me, "set the pace."  
  
I took a deep breath, stooped and took off. My leg, to my surprise, held my weight, and its ache removed my thoughts from the hole in my heart. My companions ranged themselves around me, and we ran. 


	23. Running

Chapter Twenty-Two

Running

We ran until dusk, leaving the forest for sloping ridges, and then for steep ones. Scrabbling up and down, helped by whichever of my companions happened to be closest, I made my way along. My tears were reduced to silent gasps of angry frustration. I remember looking up once, perhaps at midnight, and catching my breath at a sky swept with stars. The rage behind my eyes melted, I mopped my face with my cloak, and went on.

After half-sliding down the tallest ridge thus far, we paused. It was not yet dawn. The moist air was effervescent, and I could not gasp enough of it. Tired as I was, I did not think I would be able to sleep, which was fortunate, because I did not think Aragorn likely to call that long a halt.

The man's focus was astonishing, as was his speed. I, as the slowest, may have set the pace, but he held me to it, while simultaneously keeping an eye on the orcs' trail. He had lost it now, though, in the rocks and the dark.

I folded awkwardly to the ground, physically exhausted but mind alive, as he paced the valley. The run had freed clumps of hair from my braid, and they now straggled into my eyes and everywhere else. Frustrated, I pulled the tail from my tunic and finger-combed it out.

Trying to rebraid the lank mass in the dark with a right arm that would not bend behind my head proved more frustrating, and I had nearly given up when slim fingers slipped beneath my own and took the work from me. "You should not strain your arm," Legolas said.

Slumping back, I allowed him to tug, twist, and deftly elf-handle my hair into a herringbone weave, with warrior's side-locks catching up the wisps. The elf slipped away to converse with Aragorn as silently as he had come, even before I could offer my thanks.

A northward course was decided upon, as Aragorn thought the orcs likely to cut across the plains of Rohan. The sky lightened steadily, showing us our road, a stone-pocked gully sandwiched between sheer cliff and gray foothills. We pressed on, Aragorn bent nearly double and Legolas far ahead. The elf shouted, surprising us all, and we converged upon him. Gimli stopped so suddenly that, mesmerized by fatigue and the rhythm of my stride, I nearly ran into him.

We stared down at the five dead orcs that Legolas had found. Their corpses had been mangled, and the ground covered with their blood. Gimli thought it another riddle, but to Legolas it was quite plain. "Orc-enemies must needs be our friends. What manner of folk dwell in this place?" he inquired of Aragorn.

"None of the Rohirrim, and certainly not men of Gondor. Perhaps a hunting party found them, but I do not think it likely."

"Why, what is your guess?" Gimli wanted to know.

"That the orcs fought among themselves, and that the larger ones, who bore the S-runes, cut down the smaller folk from the North. Though what the dispute was over I cannot say."

"Let us hope," said Gimli, "that it did not concern the hobbits, and that they were not slain here also."

Aragorn searched further, but found nothing, so we continued. Less than a mile on, we came to a tiny stream, no more than a trickle, fighting its way through the rock into the valley. Shrubs and grass, a miracle in this barren waste, grew in and around it. I stooped to wash the sweat and dirt from my face, wincing as the water touched the orc's slashes.

Aragorn paused as well, but his interest was in the mud, not the water. In it were prints from iron-shod shoes. We had found the trail again.

Straightening, we began to run with renewed strength and hope. Upon reaching the crest of the hill, I turned back briefly, letting the chill dawn wind rUffle my hair and sting my face. I faced west once more as the sun took possession of the sky, turning the colorless clouds rosy. The plains of Rohan lay before us, carpeting green right up to the mountains, which rose like icebergs to our left. I imagined that I could see all the way to Minas Tirith, and Aragorn echoed my sentiments with a short, whispered poem about Gondor before urging us onward.

While sliding down our current ridge, Legolas spotted the eagle again, this time flying north. None of the rest of us could see him, not even Aragorn, but, while we were looking, he spotted something closer and more significant moving across the plains. Legolas guessing the party to be perhaps twelve leagues away. Gimli urged that we find the quickest path down onto the grass. For my part, I was glad to see the last of Emyn Muil.

We scrambled along the last cliff as the sun rose higher, finding tokens of our quarry as we did so. The orcs had left remains of food and other detritus littered in their wake. We followed this trail north and down, through another stream-carved ravine, and so to the plain.

The grass of Rohan rivaled that of Lothlorien for scent and springiness. Resilient beneath my feet, it smelled of spring and life newly begun after winter's darkness. The air warmed around me. I felt strength replace my pain and fill the emptiness within me. The rest of the company seemed similarly affected.

We spread out to run in single file, Aragorn replacing me as lead. It did not take us long to find the orcs' trail again. I had slipped back to stride between Legolas and Gimli when the Ranger veered off, shouting for us not to follow. Legolas, of course, stopped on a dime, but the dwarf barreled into me. Both of us went down, he cursing in Khuzdul, I stifling a yell of pain.

An Elvish sigh, and Legolas helped both of us up before going to meet Aragorn. "Hobbit footprints," he cried, "small enough to be Pippin's. And this I have found also!" He displayed his prize, and my hand went to my throat, for the man held a brooch identical to the one that clasped my elven cloak. Legolas and Gimli's exclamations confirmed that it was indeed one of those that the Fellowship had been gifted with in Lorien.

"One of the hobbits cast this away to aid any who might be tracking them, and ran away from the orcs so as to leave a mark."

"Then one of the hobbits is alive, at least, and thinking. Walking about, too. Our pursuit is not blind faith," Gimli said.

"I hope Pippin did not suffer at the orcs' hands for his boldness," Legolas added. "Let us go! No folk should be used so, least of all our merry hobbits."

We concurred, and voted with our feet. Running across the plains was almost a joy. My staff was of more use of flat ground, almost taking the place of my lame leg. Given new strength by the atmosphere and new hope by Pippin's sign, we stopped only twice to rest that day.

Each time, Aragorn checked my bandages, in case they had been jarred loose, and made adjustments so it was easier for me to get along. I could not tell other than by how the wounds felt, but they did not seem to be healing. Of course, it had only been one day since I'd acquired them, but I did not think strenuous exercise to be the best remedy.

We halted as the sun's last rays vanished, and Aragorn called a council to decide whether to go on or rest by night. Legolas pointed out that the orcs would probably not rest, and that, even if they did, they were still leagues ahead of us. To which Gimli responded that even Aragorn could not track them with any accuracy at night. The debate went on for some time, with excellent points on both sides.

All the aches of the day had ambushed me as soon as I sat down, so I ignored the argument in favor of a nap. I woke to black midnight and staggered upright, wondering if I had been left behind. But no, two silent forms lay beside me, and a third stood gazing northward. Legolas turned at my approach. "Why did no one wake me?" I wanted to know.

"Firiel, we had not the heart." His voice was soft and without intonation.

I searched for pity in his face, but it was either not there or well hidden by poise and shadow. "I could have gone on. I have no wish to be coddled."

Legolas looked at me with wonder. "Were you an elf-maid who had lost her love, you would pass into the West, having no strength or desire left for life. Yet you go on, and do not despair, though your heart is broken. Nienna I name you, she of the Valar whose tears never cease, but give wisdom and endurance beyond hope, and sustain life instead of sapping it."

"That is well," I said, too tired to argue and a little stunned at this praise. "Call me Nienna."

We stood in silence for a long moment, and then something I had meant to ask him crossed my mind. "Teach me how," I began, somewhere below a whisper. The elf glanced at me oddly, so I elaborated. "You're taking yourself away. You do it when we run, and you do it while we sleep, and I want to know how it's done. Is it some sort of Elf-magic?"

Legolas favored me with an enigmatic smile. "It could be called so. Why have you wish to learn?"

I swallowed the lump that had appeared in my throat. "I'm not- I don't want to dream."

He nodded and folded bonelessly to the ground. "I shall try." I did the same, with much less grace. "Close your eyes." I did. "Now you must concentrate upon one thing, and upon one thing only: a place, an object, a place." His tone dropped on the last words, and I saw that he knew the face that had sprung unbidden to my mind.

I pushed back tears, seeing in poignant detail the strong, bearded chin, kind mouth and brown eyes. "Never let your mind waver," I heard Legolas say, as if from very far away. Then, I am ashamed to say, I fell asleep.

I dreamed in disjointed images. I saw my sister weeping, but when she spoke, the voice was not Amy's. Instead, Madam Alatar repeated her warning: "Do not touch the water. Do not touch the water." I was not sorry when Aragorn shook me awake.

It was still dark, but the Ranger said we must go, or lose the scent. He spent a long time with his ear pressed to the ground only to report horsemen riding away from us, which confused all of us, but still we set out for the third day of chase.

The weather could not decide whether to cloud or let the sun shine, and in truth I paid it precious little mind. We followed the orcs northwest, barely stopping to swallow lembas and water a few times. The pace slowed sometimes to a loping walk in deference to me, I think. I was beginning to be too exhausted to be grateful.

Towards twilight the terrain changed, the plains ahead easing into a series of low downs, the ground becoming rougher and the grass stubbier. Shivering in the quiet and the cold, I bent my head and kept running.

We rested at dusk, and once again I fell asleep in the middle of the discussion. A night's sleep was not enough for anyone, I think, except Legolas, who was not, after all, sleeping. He roused us to a red dawn, and we set out with breakfast in our mouths, if lembas and water, which we'd been eating for all three meals for the last three days, could be called breakfast.

Near noon we reached the downs. They ran north in bare ridges, and a wide strip of marshland lay between them and the River. West of the closest slope, Aragorn discovered what must have been the orcs' campsite, and paused to examine it. He reported that even the trail leading out from this was cold: it had been thirty-six hours since the orcs had been there.

Although I wanted nothing so much as to plop down and have a good cry, I followed the others, tramping painfully along. Weariness had seeped into everyone's (except Legolas') bones, weighing us down. Gimli's strong back was stooped, and Aragorn had his mouth set in a hard, grim line. I was doing my best to detach my mind from anything below my neck.

Legolas led now, and it was he who called us up the summit of a green hill. This was the last of the downs, and from it we watched the sun set. The shadows of evening turned the green plains into a gray wasteland, with a deeper darkness off to the northwest.

"There is nothing to guide us here," Gimli panted, "so we must halt. The night grows cold."

Aragorn nodded. "The wind blows from the north- from the snows."

"And before morning it will blow from the east," Legolas said. "But we must rest. Tomorrow may hold some hope we have not looked for. We will know at sunrise."

"We have run for three sunrises, and they have brought us no hope." I privately agreed with Gimli's grumbling.

The chill increased as the stars came out, so Aragorn and Gimli dropped on either side of me, close enough to share the warmth of our bodies. I did not mind. All three of us were grimy and sweat-covered, and I had long since grown used to Gimli's stentorian snores, and Aragorn's fitful sleep.

They let me sleep late, which I am sure I should have been grateful for. When I did wake, it was to Aragorn's shout of "Riders!" Stumbling up, I found my breath stolen by the vista around me.

The sky had cleared and my spirit soared to see the sweeping expanses of grass that rippled beneath the hand of the wind, which was indeed from the East, like waves running across a golden sea. Fangorn Forest lay to the northwest, the Misty Mountains just visible beyond it. The orcs' trail turned from our hill into the River. Surveying this, I saw a shadow moving swift across the plains, and supposed it must be horsemen. Legolas reported that there were one hundred and five of them, and that they were little more that five leagues away. '_Fifteen miles,'_ said the back of my head.

"The distance matters little; we cannot escape them on these plains. Shall we wait or go on?"

Aragorn cast a calculating glance at me, taking in, no doubt, the way I sat favoring my leg. "We will wait. All of us are spent, and our pursuit has failed. They, however, are riding back down the orcs' trail, and may have news of them."

"But they most assuredly have spears, and who knows what use they may put them to," Gimli pointed out.

Legolas shaded his eyes and looked again. "There are no hobbits among them."

"We may not hear good news, but good or ill, we shall wait for it here." Aragorn put an end to all further discussion, and we left the hill, where we were truly sitting ducks, and sat together at its base, wrapped up in our cloaks. The chill and insidious wind found its way everywhere but directly through the weave of the Galadhrim.

"What manner of men do we wait for," I finally asked Aragorn, "and what welcome will they offer us?" My voice sounded strange in my ears, and it was an effort to keep my teeth from chattering once I had opened my mouth.

He took a moment to answer. "I rode with them, long ago. They are proud, but without malice, generous, bold, and wise in their way. The tales and songs sung in the Golden hall of a winter's night would rival those of any bard in Harad or Gondor. But I not know what passes now in the minds of the Rohirrim, and whether they would side with Saruman or no. They have long been friendly to Gondor, and have no fondness for orcs."He fell silent, chewing on his bottom lip.

"Did Gandalf not speak of a rumor that they now give tribute to Mordor?" Gimli questioned.

"Boromir did not believe it, and neither do I." Aragorn's shoulder tensed against mine, and I leaned a bit closer to him.

"We will know soon," Legolas said. "They are coming."

The air filled with the sound of hoof beats, and the ground began to vibrate under us, and then they were upon us like a sudden storm. As they rode they shouted to one another in a broad, rolling language that I supposed must be Rohirric. The leader swerved to lead the host back southward, and they followed in file.

An éored in full battle gear, riding at the peak of their mounts, is a thing of lethal, terrible beauty. The horses' coats shone gray and white and roan, and their manes were braided. The riders' hair flowed flaxen from under their helmets, glistening with their mail and spear points in the sun. They did not seem to see us.

All had nearly passed when Aragorn chose to stand and call, in a voice pitched to carry over wind and the noise of battle, "What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?"


	24. Horse Lords

Chapter Twenty-Three

Horse Lords

As one, the horsemen wheeled their steeds to ride up the slope behind us, around, and down in front, closing the moving circle tightly around us. Legolas, Gimli, and I sat motionless, watching Aragorn, who still stood. The wind from the horses' passage whipped his hair and cloak around him, but he weathered the gale and seemed to master it, and it only served to make him seem more kingly.

The Riders halted without visible or audible signal, all of them pointing either spears or arrows at us. One rode forward, taller than his fellows, and poked his spear at Aragorn's chest. "Who are you, and what is your business in this land?"

"I am called Strider," he answered, unperturbed. "I have come out of the North. I am hunting orcs."

This seemed to enrage the Rider, for he threw himself out of the saddle, shoved his spear into his subaltern's hand, and drew his sword. Less than a foot lay between him and Aragorn, and every inch of that air was charged. The Rider's expression softened at length from anger into wonder under the force of Aragorn's gaze, and he spoke again.

"I took you for orcs at first, but now I see that you are not, and indeed you must know little of them, to hunt them so. It is well for you that you did not overtake them, for they would have slain you. Or perhaps not, Strider, for you are strange, and that is no proper name. Strange is your raiment as well, that you escaped our sight. Come you from the elves?"

Aragorn answered that, among us, only Legolas was an Elf, but that we had all passed through Lothlorien and bore Galadriel's gifts and favor. The Rider did not seem to know how to react to this. His eyes widened and then grew steely. "So the tales are true, and there is a lady in the Golden Wood. She is a great sorceress, some say, and perhaps you are like to her in this: weavers of magic." His gaze raked me, and then moved on to Legolas and Gimli. "Why do the rest of you remain silent?"

Gimli leaped up, axe ready, faster than I would have given him credit for. "I will give you my name, horsemaster, and more, if you will give me yours." The crack about Galadriel had angered him, I think.

Horseboy stared him down. "As a stranger in these lands, you should declare yourself first, but I am called Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark."

Gimli answered him back, warning him against foolish words and comments regarding things too great for him to understand. I could tell the Dwarf was fairly spoiling for a fight.

So were Éomer and his men, who grumbled and shook their spears when Éomer threatened to behead and debeard Gimli, if only the Dwarf were a little taller.

Legolas did not like this, and sprang up beside Gimli, arrow already notched. I had not even seen him draw it. Éomer raised his sword at that, creating quite a little impasse. I watched from the ground as Aragorn stepped in between the near-combatants and diffused the situation by asking Éomer's pardon and telling him that when he knew more he would understand our reactions. He ended with the promise that we meant neither Rohan nor her people harm, and begged him to hear our story before he passed judgment upon us.

Éomer let his sword fall to his side. "Less pride would be more fitting for strangers in Rohan these dark days. Tell me your true name." He scowled at Aragorn.

"Gladly," the Ranger countered, "when you have named to me the one you serve, and if it is not the Dark Lord."

Éomer declared that he served only King Théoden, the Lord of the Mark, and that Rohan neither served nor openly opposed Sauron. Trouble threatened at all of Rohan's borders, he said, and also that his people desired only freedom, serving no lord, good or evil. "Once guests were welcome in the Golden Hall," he concluded, "but now the unlooked-for stranger is met swiftly and hard. Now, whom do you serve, and at whose command do you seek orcs in Rohan?"

"I call no man master," said Aragorn, "but the Dark Lord's minions I hunt wherever they may go. I know much of orcs, more than I would wish, and it is not by choice that I go hunting them thus. They have captured two of our friends, and we run after them because we have no mounts, with only the numbers and weapons that you see here." He unsheathed Anduril and told Éomer exactly whom he had waylaid.

Having more names than socks can be a wonderful way to make friends and influence people. It certainly worked for Aragorn. He seemed to grow taller, and if he had stretched out one of his hands, a living replica of the Argonath would have stood before us.

Éomer took a step backwards and looked away. "We dwell indeed in strange times when legends and dreams spring from the grass. Tell me, lord," he began, his entire attitude reverent, "what brings you here, and what is the answer to the dark riddle. Boromir of Gondor has been gone long, and the horse we gave him returned riderless to us. What doom do you bring to Rohan?"

"The doom of choice. Tell Théoden King that open war is coming, with Mordor or against it. All lives are changed, and few shall keep what they think secure. I will speak of these great matters later, and to Théoden himself, if chance allows. Now I am in need of aid, or at least of news. That we pursued the orcs, you know. What can you tell us of them?" I wondered why Aragorn bothered asking, for Éomer was helpless in the face of his charisma, and couldn't get the words out fast enough.

"No more pursuit is needed. We destroyed the orcs." I could tell that Éomer was a bit afraid of how Aragorn would take this.

"What of our friends?"

"We found only orcs." Again, that doubt in a face not meant for fear.

Aragorn was visibly shaken also. "That is strange. Did you search among the slain? Their bodies would be small, like children, and clad in gray."

"We found neither Dwarves nor children, though we counted all the bodies before we burned them."

Gimli and Aragorn proceeded to explain hobbits to the Riders, which generated much laughter and confusion, but when Éomer, scoffing, asking if we walked in stories or on the earth in the daylight, Aragorn quelled him. "A man may do both," he said, "for when the legends of our time are made by our children and theirs, who can say what part we will have in them? And this earth is a mighty matter in many legends, though we tread it in the light of day."

Éomer covered the fact that he had been put soundly in his place, and pretended to ignore Aragorn's words, as if that were possible. My head was picking up Rohirric at an astonishing rate, and I got every other word of Éomer's command to his lieutenant, who retired, muttering, and gathered the éored back on the path, leaving us alone with Éomer.

"You speak strangely, Aragorn," he began, "and yet I see that it is truth. There is no falsehood in the speech of the Mark, and so we are not easy to deceive. You have not, I think, said everything, though. Will you now speak more freely, that I may judge what to do?"

Aragorn detailed the Fellowship's journey from Imladris, and told of his plan to go with Boromir to Minas Tirith. He said nothing of the Ring, and only mentioned that Gandalf had led us.

Éomer seized upon the wizard's name, warning us that it was known in Rohan, but that the wizard was no longer favored by Théoden. Gandalf, apparently, had always brought strange news and, some said, evil. He had warned them of war brewing in Isengard, when Rohan had hitherto been friendly with Saruman. Then, Théoden had not listened to the tale of his escape from Orthanc, and Gandalf had departed, taking Shadowfax, the greatest of the king's horses. The steed had returned, but was now wild.

I was beginning to realize that the life of the Rohirrim revolved around their horses. The motif appeared on helm and shield, and before they withdrew, I'd noticed that the horses looked better fed than some of their riders.

Aragorn reported Gandalf's death, and what that had meant to the Fellowship. Éomer, at least, seemed moved. Then the Ranger told of Boromir's fall, and how he had been slain by the orcs the Riders had overtaken.

Éomer shook me with his response. "This is woeful news, and a great blow to both Gondor and Rohan! Boromir was a worthy man. All loved him, though he came seldom to the Golden Hall, being ever at the wars in the East, but I knew him. He seemed to me more like the high-hearted men of Rohan than the dour folk of Gondor, and a great captain to his men. We have heard naught of this sorrow out of Gondor. When was he slain?"

I saw Aragorn open his mouth, and decided I didn't want to be ignored any longer. This man paid tribute to my lord and love: I would answer him. Throwing my hood back, I looked up at him. "It is now four days since he fell. I thank you for your words, Lord Éomer, and your vengeance upon his murderers. I would stand to do so, but I fear my leg will not hold me."

He took in my posture and the state of my right legging, and went down on one knee. I drew myself up as much as I could, which caused his eyes to narrow and then widen with surprise. "What were you to Boromir of Gondor? For he had no...companion when he came to us seeking a mount."

"Our meeting was in Lorien, and we journeyed together from there. He was- we were handfasted. I was with him when he fell on Amon Hen."

Éomer stared. "Amon Hen! That must be forty-five leagues hence. And you have journeyed four days...on foot?"

"Even as we are," said Aragorn from somewhere above us. I nodded.

Éomer looked up at him with, if possible, even more wonder than before. "'Strider' does not do you justice, Arathorn's son. Wingfoot I would call you." He turned back to me. "And you are wounded! This chase shall be sung on many a winter's night in the Golden Hall."

He stood, and looked again to Aragorn. "What would you have me do now, lord? I must return to the king, and he will not take the news you bring well. Open war has not yet come, but some close to Théoden would tell him that it never will. We have long been Gondor's allies, and I and my men will aid them while they fight."

"Then you do not pay tribute to Sauron?" Gimli blurted. I could have kicked him.

Éomer wanted to as well, or worse. "We do not and never have, though I know that lie has been spread. Years ago the Dark Lord offered us much gold for horses, but we refused him. Now orcs plunder our herds, taking always the black horses. Few now are left." That matter put to rest, he continued.

"Saruman concerns us chiefly now. The wizard has claimed lordship over Rohan, and also sends orcs and other creatures against us. He has closed the Gap in the mountains with his wizardry. He is cunning, and goes about everywhere, as do his spies. My heart tells me that they are even now in Edoras, but you shall see for yourself if you journey there. You will come, will you not? Have you not been sent to us for aid in our need?" His tone did not beg, but the words came perilously close, and his eyes beseeched Aragorn, who finally said that he would come when he could.

"Why not now?" Éomer pressed. "Elendil's heir would bring us strength indeed in these evil days." He revealed that he had left Edoras without the king's permission when word reached him of the orcs we had pursued, and how he and his men had slain them near the border of Fangorn yesterday morning. Twelve horses they had lost, and fifteen men, but now the rest of the company was needed in the south and west. Again he begged Aragorn to come, offering us spare horses and plenty of excitement.

Aragorn thanked him for his fair speech, but declined once more, saying he could not desert Merry and Pippin while any hope might still remain. No one who didn't know him would have noticed the tension in every line of the Ranger's body, but I saw how his eyes strayed past Éomer as he spoke and sensed his desire to be away as soon as possible.

"But no hope remains!" Éomer warned. "You will not find them on the northern borders."

As Aragorn told him about finding Pippin's brooch and mentioned other particulars of tracking, my leg spasmed. Changing position did nothing, so I hoisted myself up and leaned heavily on my staff. Éomer was admitting that the hobbits might have slipped unnoticed into Fangorn, with the help of their Elvish cloaks.

"But," he said, "it is hard to be sure of anything in these strange days, when Elf and Dwarf walk together in Rohan, and bring tidings of legends alive: the Lady of the Golden Wood and Elendil's Sword Reforged. How are men to judge in such times?"

Aragorn endured this complete digression, patiently explaining that good and evil had not changed, and that men might judge as they always had.

Almost contrite, Éomer agreed, and said that he did not doubt Aragorn, nor what he himself wanted to do. He revealed that we were likely to be counted trespassers in Rohan, but that he did not wish to begin a battle of three against a hundred.

I privately agreed that these odds would be unfair—to Éomer and his men. Besides, Aragorn explained, he had ridden with the Rohirrim, knew Éomer's father and the king, and so could not truly be counted a stranger. "Never in those days would any lord of Rohan delayed an errand such as ours. You must make your choice, Éomer, to aid or to at least let us go. Or waylay us, as the law demands, but this will leave you with even less men to return to home or battle." _And possibly_, I thought, _none at all_.

Éomer thought about this for a minute, and as he did, his eyes lingered on me, barely upright, for entirely too long. "Well," he said at last, "we both have need of haste. You must go, and I will lend you horses. But in return I would ask that when you find your friends, or whatever may remain of them, return the horse to Meduseld and present yourself to Théoden King. Thus you may prove that I have judged you aright. On this- your good faith- rides my honor, and maybe my life. Do not fail."

Aragorn promised that he would not, and Éomer shouted for the spare horses to be brought to us. The Riders did not like this. One protested that a Dwarf was no fit master for a horse of Rohan. I thought we might have another riot on our hands when Gimli shot back that maybe a horse of Rohan was not a fitting mount for a Dwarf, and that he would rather walk, but Legolas offered to bear him on his own mount.

My swaying had become nearly visible when Aragorn turned to me and asked quietly, "Can you handle your own mount?"

I stared at him while my pride and the pain in my leg fought a brief, pitched battle. The pain won. I shook my head. The Ranger nodded, and called to Éomer for another mount that would bear two.

The one he brought us nearly distracted me from Legolas and Gimli's mounting antics. Huge and steel-gray, he warmed to Aragorn immediately. As Éomer told us his name was Hasufel, the Ranger coaxed the mount over to me with Elvish whispers and showed me how to blow in the horse's nostrils so that he would recognize me. Hasufel endured my blowing, and only protested a little when I was heaved onto his back.

I am afraid I might have yelled a little at that, as gentle Aragorn tried to be. He checked my leg, grimaced, and said nothing. I was about to ask for a diagnosis when the Ranger launched into a very hands-on lesson in how to handle a horse, ostensibly because if we ran into trouble, he wanted me as far away as possible. I listened, feeling useless and quite stupid.

Gimli, at least, was doing considerably worse. Legolas had insisted on riding bareback, and now the Dwarf clung to him for dear life, severely impairing both their dignities. At least the horse was obeying Legolas. Aragorn mounted behind me, jolting my leg again, and nudged Hasufel over to where Éomer stood watching.

"Farewell," said the Marshal. "May you find what you seek, and return in haste. I would have our swords shine together, and not against one other."

Aragorn promised haste, and Éomer lifted his spear in farewell. The rest of his men did, as well, with some bad grace.

Kicking Hasufel into a canter, Aragorn turned him toward the Entwash. Legolas followed suit, and we rode into the mist together, leaving Éomer and his men behind.


	25. Fangorn

Chapter Twenty-Four

Fangorn

The jolt of a horse under me was quite different from the jolt of running, over any terrain. Aragorn was a consummate rider, and tried to make things easier for me, I think, but there was only so much he could do. Even I agreed that finding Merry and Pippin was more important than my comfort.

When we came to the borders of the Entwash, Aragorn slid off, steadied me, and went to look for the trail Éomer had mentioned. It did indeed come down from the hills and out of the East. He came running back to us, remounted, and urged Hasufel on a course parallel to the tracks. We followed them like this for some time, and then he dismounted again to run back and forth to examine the ground. This display would have been comical from anyone else, but from Aragorn it only served to increase our faith in his tracking skills. Still, when he returned, it was with sparse news.

"I could find little," he began, and all our hearts sank. "The main trail is mangled with returning hoof prints, but this one is clearer. No Orc tracks turn back to the River. We must go slowly, and look for signs that the captives were taken off once the orcs knew they were pursued." He climbed up on Hasufel once more, eliciting a groan from me, and we set out.

As we rode, the sky grew gray, not a dove gray or a pearl gray, but a sad gray, and clouds covered the sun. Fangorn Forest loomed ever nearer, and still we had seen no Orc tracks branching off. We 'had' seen, here and there, dead Orcs, riddled with white-fletched arrows, but no sign of the hobbits.

We reached the forest at perhaps four o'clock in the afternoon. Smoke and a smell like burnt meat drove the mist from the air, and in a glade in the edge of the woods we found the source of the stench. A heap of ashes still smoldered, and beside it lay the broken armor and weapons of the incinerated Orcs. The severed head of one had been spiked to glare out of its center. I retched, coughs spasming through my body, jarring all of my aches. I think I would have been sick all over Hasufel if there had been anything in my stomach.

Aragorn slid off and helped me down, then he, Legolas, and Gimli went to canvas the battlefield. I poked through the arsenal of detritus, squinting and trying not to breathe. Finding nothing of Merry and Pippin, I gave up.

As the dim and hazy evening fell, everyone returned, one by one, with as little to show. Gimli lamented that, of all the riddles that had beset us since Amon Hen, this was the hardest. None of us wanted to have to tell Frodo that his kinsmen were lost. According to Gimli, another of their relations, an older hobbit, waited in Rivendell, and would also been grieved. In addition, Lord Elrond had been against Merry and Pippin's coming.

"Gandalf allowed it," Legolas said, staring at the pile of ashes.

"Gandalf came himself, and was lost long before the hobbits. His foresight failed him." Gimli stared too, leaning heavily on his axe.

"Gandalf did not give advice that would lead safely to a happy end," Aragorn's voice startled us: he had come up silently through the trees. "It was better to begin this quest than to refuse it, though, and at its end, all may be lost. This he knew." The raw pain left his voice abruptly, and the Ranger was his usual pragmatic self. "We will not leave Fangorn yet, and will at least wait for the light of morning."

We removed to another clearing and made camp under a spreading chestnut tree. At least, I think it was a chestnut tree. It looked slightly strange. The entire forest, come to think of it, felt slightly strange, and the night wind that blew through it did not smell of green growing things, but of age and old leaves. I wished for Lothlorien, and Elves singing in mellyrn, and the air fresh around my love and me.

I collapsed in the center of the glade, as far away from the eerie tree as possible. Gimli stood by me, and both of us shivered. Considering pride to be a nearly useless virtue in my position, I gave in and asked: "Might we make a fire?" I waited for Aragorn, at least, to condemn the idea as dangerous foolishness, but he did not, perhaps remembering the sole blanket we had brought apiece.

Gimli seconded my idea, and Legolas pointed out that the hobbits might see the light and so find us, which cheered me to no end. I tried to pretend that I had thought of the fire for exactly that reason, but no one noticed.

"It might also draw other things," Aragorn said darkly from under the tree. "We are perilously close to Saruman's lands, and perilous it is also to touch the trees in this place." I wanted to stick my tongue out at him, but didn't have the energy.

"The Riders felled trees yesterday, and made a great blaze, yet passed the night here safely," Gimli pointed out. The vote was, after all, three to one.

"Their numbers were great, and they cared nothing for the forest's wrath. Also, they did not venture deep in to Fangorn, as we may have to." Gimli and I glared at the Ranger, and Legolas' eyes beseeched. Aragorn gave in, with only a warning not to cut living wood.

Gimli went off with almost a spring in his heavy step, leaving me to shiver in silence. Aragorn was thinking, and Legolas seemed to be listening to the trees. I rummaged in my pack for a bit of lembas to munch, and soon the Dwarf was back with wood. He kindled a fire with help from Aragorn's tinderbox, and we huddled around it, the others joining us.

I drowsed, warm for the first time in a long while, until Legolas startled us all with a calm observation. "Look," he said, "the tree wishes to be warm also."

The branches above us, which had hitherto been blown by the wind, now appeared to bend closer to our blaze of their own accord. I shivered -it was a very Wizard of Oz moment- and thought, not for the first time, that I could do without a world where trees behaved like this. The forest seemed to move around us, closing in, brooding, as if it had not yet decided whether we were good to eat.

Legolas broke the silence. "Lord Celeborn warned us against journeying far into Fangorn. Why, do you think?" he asked Aragorn. And then, directed at me, "What tales of this wood had Boromir heard?"

I shrugged: Boromir had never spoken of it to me. Aragorn answered for both of us. "Many tales I have heard of Fangorn in Gondor, and other lands, and but for those words of Lord Celeborn's I should call them merely fables. Do you not know the truth of the matter, for if a Wood Elf does not know, how shall a Man answer?"

Legolas, to my surprise, admitted that the Ranger was more traveled that he, and that he had heard nothing of Fangorn in Mirkwood. "We have only a few songs that tell how the Onodrim, that Men call Ents, dwelt here long ago, for this place is old, even by the reckoning of the Elves."

Nothing clicked in the back of my head at the mention of these new people, as I had come to expect, only a dim memory of their language, a long-winded tongue of no use to me. I didn't really care: getting to know Fangorn Forest or anyone who lived there was not high on my priority list.

Sleep 'was', but I was determined to pull my weight figuratively if not literally, so by dint of many forceful looks, I got the three stubborn males to include me when they drew lots for the watches of the night. Second watch, roughly eleven to two o'clock, fell to me, after Gimli and before Legolas and Aragorn.

Leaving the Dwarf to tend the fire, the rest of us lay down, and the last thing I heard before sleep was Aragorn, drowsily repeating his injunction not to cut living wood for the fire.

The sudden movement of those around me dragged me from the fog of sleep, and galvanized me up as well. It could not be my watch yet. The thing that had roused them stood on the edge of the clearing, at present doing nothing more that staring at Gimli. A hat hid the figure's eyes, but his body was bent under the concealing cloak, giving him the appearance of an old man.

Aragorn cleared his throat, rose into a crouch, and said, "May we assist you, grandfather?" Standing, he strode over to the intruder, whom I was not sure now was an old man. "If you are cold, come, share our fire."

I looked away, at said fire, to see if there was a convenient branch I could grab to use as either a torch or a weapon, and when I looked back, the figure had disappeared. I nearly joined the others as they searched the trees, having never felt so scared huddling alone by the fire, but my leg would not have it. Riding had not agreed with it, and it was cramping in retaliation.

"The horses!" Legolas shouted. I glanced to where we had tied them, and even though the night was as black as the inside of a witch's hat, it was clear that they were not there anymore. I went from being scared and cold to wanting to swear and kick something, but all any of us could do was stare after our mounts, who were by now far away.

Aragorn said as much, and then parked himself beside me. "Now we must do without horses. We began on our feet, and those we have still."

"Feet, certainly," I spat, "but only seven good legs between the four of us."

Aragorn reached out to touch my shoulder. "I will clean the wound at first light, and fashion a new dressing for you. With your staff, and our help, you should be able to walk. You must."

I nodded, seeing the sense in what he said, against my will. "Was that Saruman?" I asked, both because I had remembered Éomer's words and to get the conversation off my leg.

"I do not know," Aragorn admitted. "He wore a cloak, as Éomer said, but a hat, not a hood. Still, I think it was Saruman, but there is nothing to be done for it until daybreak, when we may leave." Gimli and Legolas returned to their bedrolls. I pulled my blanket up around my shoulders, wedged my leg into a marginally less painful position, and prepared to watch for two hours.

Aragorn's hand had not left my shoulder, and now he squeezed it briefly. "Sleep now, Firiel. You will need your strength tomorrow, and now I must think rather than sleep."

I set my jaw. "Then I will sit with you and think."

"Firiel," he ordered, "take some rest."

"I will, in a little while. When my leg will let me." I had jarred it quite badly, and now it throbbed with every heartbeat.

The gray eyes softened. He turned away from me, took out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and set to work filling one from the other, tamping the tobacco down carefully with his thumb.

I felt a lump rising in my throat that had nothing to do with how my leg felt. How many time had I watched Dad go through those very same motions, deep in thought, before Mum made him stop smoking? I swallowed and shook my head. Aragorn had smoked his pipe many times before in my presence, and it had never made me this melancholy.

Aragorn was watching me watch him. He had gotten the pipe drawing properly through much cupping and several applications of twigs set on fire. Without taking his eyes off me, he inhaled deeply and blew three smoke rings.

I laughed outright for the first time in I could not remember how long. Aragorn grinned and, as if to say 'Well, you do everything else, let's see you try this,' passed me the pipe.

Not even going to attempt an imitation, but determined to show him I knew what I was doing, I merely held the smoke in my mouth for a moment, blew it out through my nose, and passed the pipe back. I think Aragorn had expected me to cough and choke and generally make a fool out of myself, but Dad had often shared when I caught him smoking, as a small bribe against my telling Mum.

The throat-lump reappeared, as did the pipe in front of my face. But this time I pushed it away, overwhelmed with the thought of Mum, long gone, and Dad, lost in dementia. And what about Amy? Did she miss me, or had she forgotten she'd ever had a twin?

I tried to tell myself that it didn't matter, that I had no way of getting back and, even if I had, I'd made a promise to Boromir and myself. I had not yet gotten to Gondor, and didn't really see how I was going to. Yes, it was vaguely in the direction we were aimed now, and Aragorn would get there eventually, but would I be with him? Could I get anywhere on foot, with my leg?

I put my head down to look at the offending limb, but the firelight was too dim to discern exactly what had changed. The pain had not subsided, but neither had it grown much worse. The sharp throb had become a dull, hot ache. The wound seemed to be the only part of my body generating its own heat. Shuddering, I drew closer to the fire.

Aragorn was singing. I realized it slowly, as the words crept slowly into my consciousness. It was the one he had sung on the River, but there was more of it this time. The soft Elvish words, barely murmured to any tune at all, wrapped around my heart, warming my soul. I could have thrown my arms around him and kissed the weathered cheek somewhere beneath the stubble, but I did not want to break the spell he had woven around me.

The Ranger had put away his pipe, and sat staring into the forest, lips moving almost unconsciously I laid back, head on my elbow, and before I could find a star through the trees, fell asleep.

The first of March dawned gray and cold. I woke as everyone was making ready to set out searching once more. Seeing I was awake, Aragorn came over to see to my honorable war wounds, just as he had promised. As he tended them silently, I saw that both leg and arm were red and oozing. I did not protest when he told me to mind the fire, ostensibly in case Merry and Pippin or the horses came back, while the others searched the woods.

I did not mind much, since I knew it was the sensible thing to do. While waiting, I ate a bit, twiddled on my flute, and mended a rip in the sleeve of my tunic with needle and thread borrowed from Aragorn. I would have liked to use the time to bathe, but we were too far from the River, and I didn't think I could get there anyway.

The hunters returned around noon, with news. They had found the mallorn-leaf wrapping of a piece of lembas, and signs of at least one hobbit. These signs had led into Fangorn, and it was there that we now must go. I was, apparently, coming too, at least on this expedition.

Any movement of my leg was agony, but I knew Aragorn would be otherwise occupied, so, after a bit of experimentation, I developed a gait that pivoted alternately on my staff and good leg. It allowed me to move quite fast, but I am sure I looked very silly. Everyone was nice enough not to say anything.

We plunged into Fangorn, Aragorn doing most of the tracking. I concentrated on the ground as well, finding level patches to step or plant my staff. We returned to the stream the three hunters had found earlier, and searched along its banks. Some ways up, in the mud, were the footprints of two hobbits.

"This is good news," said Aragorn, straightening up, "but the marks are two days old. And the hobbits left the stream here."

"What now?" Gimli echoed all our thoughts. "We cannot follow them through the entire forest, we have not enough food. Even if we did find the hobbits, it would only be to sit down and starve together. Merry and Pippin would not thank us for it, hobbits being a folk over-find of food."

"If all we can do is starve with them, then we will do that," Aragorn said grimly. "We must go on."

We went on, until the path ended in a sheer rock wall carved with rough steps. Only a few long-awaited rays of warm sunlight kept me from despairing utterly. Mustering all my remaining reserves of bravado, I said jauntily, "Well, I'm going up. Perhaps you might look about down here." I took two steps up, propelled solely by momentum, and fell backwards into Aragorn's waiting arms.

I did go up. Backwards and on my bottom, with much help from the others, but I went up. When at last we all stood looking down from the plateau, Aragorn remarked, "I am nearly certain the hobbits passed here before us, but there were other marks on the stairs, not made by Merry or Pippin. Perhaps up here we may discover where they went next, and who accompanied them."

I looked around, seeing only trees. To the east the view was open, showing the forest marching toward the plains of Rohan. "We have taken the long way 'round," Legolas observed. "By leaving the River on the second or third day and striking west, we could all have come here safely. But no one can know where their road may lead until they come to its end."

"The company did not wish to journey to Fangorn," said Gimli, as if he still did not wish to.

"But here we are after all, nicely caught," Legolas began, as if he did not mind. "And here- Look!" The Elf pointed.

"What?" all three of us asked at the same time. He hushed us, and ignored our protests that we hadn't his Elvish eyes.

Down on the path we had just come up stood the old man from last night.


	26. The White Wizard Speaks

Chapter Twenty-Five

The White Wizard Speaks

He looked no less sinister in the light of day, and seemed to skulk from tree to tree without aid from the staff he carried. I wanted to yell, or run and hide. Something, anything, but my feet and mouth seemed frozen. I wondered if he had put a spell on us.

Nothing was wrong with Gimli's mouth. He shouted for Legolas to ready his bow, and to shoot before Saruman could speak. The Elf complied, but held the arrow loosely in one hand. Aragorn merely stood watching the bent figure on the path.

"Why do you wait? What is the matter?" Gimli demanded in a harsh whisper.

"Do not shoot, Legolas." Without looking at him, Aragorn put out his hand and pushed the Elf's bow down. "We cannot slay an old man unawares, without even a challenge, whatever our fears concerning him may be. Wait!"

As Aragorn spoke, the old man glided to the rock face and stood looking up at us while we, motionless, looked down at him. No one spoke. We still could not see his face, as his hat shaded it, leaving only a long nose and beard and a flash of eyes to pierce the shadows.

He broke the silence, which did indeed shatter and fall to the ground in the wake of his soft, insidious voice. "Well met, my friends. I have wished to speak with you for some time. Come you down, or shall I come up?" Without waiting, he began to mount the steps.

"Now, Legolas!" Gimli yelped.

"Have I not said I wish only to speak to you?" the old man asked, a core of steel behind his question. "Put your bow away, Master Elf."

Legolas dropped his weapon. The wizard - I did not doubt now that he was one - next addressed Gimli, who put his axe away with alacrity. Aragorn was staring at the old man, but had made no move, so I thought I had better do something. Stepping forward, I raised my staff, which set me enough off balance that a rough patch of rock sent me sprawling. With tears of pain and frustration pricking my eyes, I stared up at the white wizard.

He had come up the stairs, and now stood peering at us from under the hood of his cloak. "Well, such a group Fangorn had never seen: an Elf, a Man, a Dwarf, and-" I glared at him- "a woman! No doubt there is a strange tale behind it."

"You know Fangorn well, then?" Aragorn probed.

"Not well," the wizard replied. "That would take many lifetimes. But I come here now and again."

Aragorn rested his hand ever so casually on the hilt of his sword. "May we know your name, and then what you would speak to us of? We have a pressing errand, and the sun is already high."

"I have said what I wished to say: What do you do here, and what is the tale of your coming? And as for my name-" He broke off with a soft laugh that chilled me more than the cold stone beneath me. I shuddered. "My name? Can you not guess it? You have heard it before. But come now, tell me your tale."

I pressed my lips tightly together, in case he had a spell to force the unwilling to talk. I think the others were doing the same behind me. Our silence only prompted more taunts from the wizard. "Some would think your errand unfit to speak of. It is well I know better. You track two young hobbits." I blinked up at him stupidly. 'How in Middle-Earth would he know that, unless he had already captured them?'

"You have heard the name before, as have I," he continued. "They came here the day before yesterday and met someone they did not expect. Does that give you comfort, or do you still wish to know where they were taken?" 'As if he would tell us,' I thought, picturing Merry and Pippin locked in a dungeon, tortured by Saruman's Orcs, while the wizard moved to sit down, citing no more need of haste.

As he turned away, I suppose the spell lifted. The three hunters went for their weapons, and I hauled myself upright. The wizard did not seem to notice, but as he seated himself on a boulder his cloak fell open, revealing garments all of white.

"Saruman!" Gimli leapt forward to threaten the wizard with his axe. "Where have you taken our friends, and what have you done with them? Speak, or I will split your hat and your head with it!"

Quicker than Gimli could swing, the wizard sprang to the top of the largest boulder, throwing off his cloak to reveal luminescent white robes. He raised his staff, and Gimli dropped his axe, Legolas' bow discharged, and Aragorn's sword seemed suddenly too hot to hold. I suppose the wizard did not think me a threat.

"Mithrandir!" Legolas cried. "Mithrandir, you have returned!"

I froze. This was not Mithrandir as Boromir had described him to me, no bent gray pilgrim. To start, there was nothing gray about him, and he stood like a lord among wizards, much less among men. His hair and beard gleamed as white as his robes. I had vowed not to speak before; now I found my powers of speech taken from me.

"Gandalf," Aragorn said, shaking himself, "you have returned to us beyond all hoping. Why could I not see?" Gimli said nothing, but sank to one knee. Legolas and I merely stared.

"Gandalf?" the wizard repeated, as if he did not quite recognize the name. "Yes, that was my name. I was Gandalf." 'Who was he now?' I wondered.

He stepped down from the rock, putting his gray cloak back on, and his light diminished, like the sun hidden behind a storm cloud. "Yes, you may still call me Gandalf," he said, in a much friendlier tone. "Get up, Gimli. You have not harmed me. It is well that I was not Saruman, for then none of your weapons could have harmed me. Except perhaps this one." He put a hand on my staff. "Galadriel told me she had gifted to you a staff, but she did not tell me she had given you Celetirmar, the Silver Guardian of the House. Even I must wonder how a wizard's staff would fare against that venerable weapon."

"I have no wish to test it, lord," I managed, pleased that my voice did not shake.

The wizard stepped back and shook his head. "Rejoice, friends. I have returned to you. A great storm is brewing, but the tide has turned." This seemed good news. I had not yet figured the wizard out, but since he came from Lothlorien and had complimented my staff, I decided to give him a chance. Boromir had not had any fondness for Gandalf the Gray, but this was Gandalf the White, and I had a feeling that that transformation had required more than dipping his robes in whatever passed for bleach in Middle Earth.

Gimli looked up as Mithrandir put a hand on his head. "Gandalf, you are all in white." I had thought that quite obvious, but waited for an explanation.

He admitted that he was the White Wizard now, and could even be called Saruman, for he was Saruman before he'd gone bad, but he wished to hear our tale first. Having passed through fire and water since parting from the Fellowship, he had forgotten much that he knew and learned much that was forgotten. I suppose this entitled him to our story.

We gathered around him, and Aragorn asked what he wished to know, admitting that it would be a long tale and begging for news of the hobbits.

Mithrandir replied that they were not with him, and that indeed he had not known they were captives until an eagle told him.

Legolas latched on to this. "The eagle! We have seen one high above us, but the last time was three days ago, above the Emyn Muil."

The eagle had been Gwaihir the Windlord, the same one who'd rescued Mithrandir from Saruman before. Galadriel had told me the story. The wizard had sent him to watch the River and gather news. The eagle had reported the Ring's fate to him. He knew that Frodo had taken it, but was surprised when Legolas told him that Sam had gone too. Mithrandir approved, and once more asked us for our tale.

This time, Aragorn obliged, slipping from the common speech into Elvish, the language in which he always told stories. The only language for it, to my way of thinking. I listened with interest, although I knew most of the tale and had been there for much of it.

Before mentioning Boromir's death and the funeral we had given him, Aragorn paused, looking to me. Disoriented and shaky with adrenal letdown and what I thought might be fever, I nodded and shook my head at the same time. He waited patiently, and finally I gathered my wits to speak: "Boromir despaired on Amon Hen and, finding Frodo alone, tried to take the Ring from him. He failed, and repented when I...rebuked him. We went in search of Merry and Pippin, then. Boromir was slain by the orcs that captured them, and I was wounded." I looked up at the wizard, waiting for him to speak.

"Poor Boromir!" The words startled me: of all the responses I had expected, pity was not one of them. "I could not see his fate. The temptation of the Ring was a heavy weight on him, a leader of men. Galadriel told me of his peril, and I am glad he escaped it in the end." Mithrandir turned his gimlet gaze on me. "But the Boromir of Gondor I knew did not suffer rebukes lightly. How did he come to hear yours and repent, daughter of earth?"

I took a deep breath. "He did not suffer my rebukes lightly, but I knew his mind in some part. We were handfasted."

Bushy eyebrows disappeared into the brim of the wizard's hat. "Galadriel sensed a kindling between you and the son of Denethor. So this is how it ended."

"Yes, my lord Mithrandir, it ended thus," I said bitterly, "on Amon Hen, with the capture of two hobbits and the death of Boromir."

"Merry and Pippin's capture was not in vain. It brought them to Fangorn, and even here they surpassed themselves. Like small droplets that signal a storm, they have begun something much greater than they know. Even now I hear the first rumblings of thunder. Saruman may get wet in Orthanc!"

He chuckled as the four of us stared at him, nonplussed. Aragorn voiced all our opinions. "You return much changed, Gandalf, but still you speak in riddles."

"Riddles? No, I only speak aloud to myself. It is a habit of the aged to speak to the wisest person present, and you young folk require so many tedious explanations." He laughed, and the sound was not sinister anymore, only slightly exasperating.

"Not even by the Reckoning of the Ancient Houses am I young," Aragorn protested. "Will you not speak more clearly to me?"

"What shall I say?" said Mithrandir, and thought a moment. "This, then, is in brief how things stand at the moment. The Enemy knows a hobbit bears the Ring, and that he has gone abroad with it. He knows the composition of the company that set out from Rivendell, but not, I think, of the addition it gained in Lothlorien." The ice-gray eyes flicked to me. "Our purpose is still hidden from him. He supposes we were all for Minas Tirith, for so he would have chosen. In truth, it would have been a heavy blow against his power. Indeed, he fears a Ring-Wielder will arise, seeking to cast him down and take his place. That no one would replace him, that we should destroy the Ring, has not entered his darkest thoughts, which is to our advantage." Mithrandir looked beyond us, seeing farther than our eyes would reach, the gaze of a master tactician watching pieces move on the chessboard of the world. I wondered if he thought of those sitting at his feet as game pieces. Perhaps Aragorn was knight, and Legolas and Gimli rooks. But I was only a pawn, and now my leg would not even let me advance one square at a time. But, I reminded myself, a pawn reaching the eighth square became a queen, and for me that eighth square was Minas Tirith, my goal.

"But," Mithrandir began again, "imagining war, Sauron has unleashed war. Believing he has no time to waste, he seeks to obliterate us before we can challenge him. This has turned his Eye from the Ring and his own land, which gives Frodo a chance to end everything, unnoticed until it is too late. But now the Enemy looked toward Minas Tirith, and I fear that very soon his wrath will fall upon the White City. But he has failed so far: he has neither Ring nor Hobbits, thanks to Saruman."

"Then Saruman is a traitor!" exclaimed Gimli.

"Yes, doubly. He has grown very strong, menacing Rohan, and so Gondor. Yet he would also like the Ring for his own, and in seeking it he has only taken Merry and Pippin to Fangorn, where they would otherwise never have come at all, at the moment where they may do the most good!"

I had to grin at that. Mithrandir went on to explain that tidings of the Riders' battle with the Orcs would never reach Mordor, leaving Sauron to wonder if Saruman possessed the Ring. "If Minas Tirith falls, things will go badly for Saruman." 'Yes, they will,' I thought, 'because I'll scale Orthanc and scratch his little wizard eyes out.'

"A pity that our friends lie between the two towers," Gimli said, "or we could let them fight it out while we watched."

Mithrandir shot this down with an a speed of quelling purpose that I had thought only Aragorn possessed. Perhaps he'd learned it from the wizard. "Isengard could only fight Mordor if Saruman obtained the Ring, which now he never will. But this, among many things, he does not know." He had seen Saruman's doubt, he said, and his knowledge of the Uruk's quarrel with the Orcs from Mordor. "But he does not know yet of the Winged Messenger."

This pricked up all our ears. "The Winged Messenger!" Legolas exclaimed. "I felled him from the sky above Sarn Gebir, though he struck fear into all our hearts. What was it?"

"One that cannot be slain with arrows, not even those from the bow of Galadriel. The Nazgul now ride upon winged steeds, but Saruman does not know, as they have not yet been allowed across the River. His thought is ever on the Ring, and on what might happen if it comes to Rohan. He has fled back to Isengard to renew his assault upon the Horse Lords. But there is another danger he does not see: he has forgotten Treebeard."

Aragorn grinned. "You speak to yourself again, for Treebeard is not known to me. I had guessed some of Saruman's double dealings, but I do not see what purpose Merry and Pippin's coming to Fangorn my serve, only that it has set us a long and fruitless chase."

The wizard favored us with an enigmatic smile and did not answer. He looked completely different from the old man who had menaced us the night before, so I thought to ask, "My lord Mithrandir, was it you who visited our camp last night, or Saruman?"

He twinkled at me. "It certainly was not me, so I must guess that it was Saruman. Evidently we look so much alike that Gimli's threat to put a dent in my hat must be excused."

The Dwarf was glad that he had got the right wizard, but I was not so sure. I did not like the fact that Saruman, by all accounts a Dark Lord wannabe, had come so close to us. "But the hobbits?" Legolas broke into my dark musings with a very interesting question. "We have sought them long and far, and you seem to know-- where are they?"

"With Treebeard and the Ents," Mithrandir said, as if this should have been obvious.

And it was, to everyone else. "The Ents!" exclaimed Aragorn. "Then the old stories are true when they speak of the tree-shepherds in the deep forests. I had thought them only legends of Rohan."

Legolas denied this: apparently the Elves of Mirkwood sang many songs of the Onodrim, and 'Treebeard' was Fangorn in Common Speech. I had not made that connection. Legolas ended by asking whom Treebeard, if he was a separate entity, was, exactly. I'd been wondering that as well.

After the high speech equivalent of, "Good question, but I don't have time to explain," the wizard uttered some cryptic remarks about Treebeard being the oldest thing yet walking under the sun. Apparently this aged person had come here two days ago and taken Merry and Pippin off to his house near the mountain. Mithrandir had seen him four days ago, but they had not spoken.

As yet, no one had offered a qualitative description of these Ents, so while Mithrandir told Gimli how dangerous he was, I leaned over to Legolas and asked, "What are these Onodrim like to look at?"

The Elf frowned for a moment, and then said thoughtfully, "I am not sure, but I think we camped under one last night."

I digested this, trying not to laugh, although a tree trying to warm itself at our fire had been scary at the time. "So. They're trees that can talk and move about?"

"They did take the forms of tall trees, and could move about at great pace and speak, though they did not often do so, being a people more prone to taking thought than action. Or so say our songs in Mirkwood." He smiled, a perfect smile in a perfect face, and I should my head. I'd never understand Elves and trees, or Elves and Ents, for that matter.

Mithrandir was speaking about Treebeard, too, now, saying that his slow wrath had boiled over and filled the hobbits. As I wondered how safe it was to leave Merry and Pippin with such a creature, he explained that the tidings of the Treason of Isengard brought by the hobbits had set the Ents in motion, and now they were going to 'do something' about Saruman. It sounded like a Mob shakedown to me.

I was about to demand that we go and at least check on Merry and Pippin first, but my leg twinged and I knew that I must concentrate on getting to Edoras, and so to Minas Tirith. I could only pray that the hobbits were all right.

"The morning is wearing away," Mithrandir said. "We must go soon." Aragorn wanted to go to the hobbits as well, but the wizard dismissed this. "That is not your road. My words have been hopeful ones, but hope is not victory. War is coming to all, and only the Ring can give certainty of conquering. We have it not, and much will be destroyed. All may be lost. Gandalf the White I am, but Black overshadows White." He stood, gazing eastward at things no mortal eye could see and, after a moment, shook his head slowly. "There is no hope of retrieving it now. We can at least be glad that the Ring is no longer a temptation. Now we must go down to face a peril much less great."

In my worry about Merry and Pippin's fate, I had forgotten Frodo and Sam's infinitely more dangerous journey into Mordor. I had not forgotten the Ring. It lurked in the back of my mind like an oily stain, a taint that could never really be scrubbed off. If I blamed anything for all the trouble that had come to me-Boromir's death included-it was certainly this token of Sauron's evil.

Mithrandir was reassuring Aragorn that our running after Merry and Pippin had not been useless, since it had, after all led to our meeting him. Now, he said, we must go to Edoras, as we had promised. Anduril and Celetirmar were needed in the hall of Théoden King, for war and other worse things were afoot in Rohan.

When Legolas inquired plaintively if we were never to see Merry and Pippin again, Mithrandir said that we might yet, and repeated his injunction to accompany him to Edoras.

"It is a long way to walk," Aragorn commented, not looking at me. "The battle will end long before we arrive."

The wizard mumbled and muttered, hemming and hawing and generally dissembling before asking us to come anyway. He also was not looking at me.

'Well,' I thought, staring at the statuesque figures of kingly Ranger and wizard, 'if they're going to ignore me, I'll just have to make the best of it. And if I keel over halfway across the plains, they'll really have to do something.' This filled me with a perverse pleasure, and I once more attended to what Aragorn and Mithrandir were saying.

The Ranger had appointed Mithrandir, as the White Rider, official mascot of the Forces of Good, by virtue of having passed through "fire and the abyss." "We will go where you lead," he finished.

'Speak for yourself,' I almost said, knowing what I would do if it came down to a discussion of following Mithrandir and riding to Gondor.

Legolas then pressed for an account of how the wizard had escaped Moria. 'Here we go again,' I thought, glad I had not gotten up. I settled in to listen, a little curious.

Mithrandir, at least, protested that we had need of haste, but Gimli joined the clamoring throng, asking how the wizard had fared with the Balrog, whom I supposed to be the 'demon of the ancient world'.

"Do not speak his name!" Mithrandir thundered, face clouded briefly with pain and sorrow. "We fell together for a long time, his fire all around me until we plunged into water deep and dark, a tide heart-freezing and as cold as death."

"The chasm spanned by Durin's Bridge is deep," Gimli breathed. "None have measured it."

"Yet beyond light and knowledge it has a bottom, and there I came at last. He was with me still, though now a creature of slime and sinew." The wizard took a deep breath. "Far under the living earth, beyond time, we fought, ever clutching and hewing at one another, until he fled into dark tunnels not carved by Dwarves, but gnawed by things older than naming. Of those things and that place I will not speak, save that by pursuit of my enemy I returned to Khazad-dum, to the Endless Stair."

"That has long been lost," Gimli breathed, his awe not diminished. "Many say that it was never built, or destroyed long ago."

Mithrandir shook his head. "Still it climbs from the lowest dungeon to the highest peak, until it ends at last on Durin's Tower, the pinnacle of the Silvertine. There on Celebdil was a window in the snow, and before it a portal above the mists of the world. The sun shone there, but all below was cloud. He sprang from the mist, kindled in new flame. Many would be the songs made of the Battle of the Peak-if any had been there to see it." Mithrandir laughed, a dry harsh bark. "Songs of thunder and lightening and rains of ice. But in the end I threw him down, and he cracked the mountain where he fell. Then darkness took me, and of the paths I wandered then I also would not speak." Something told me he did not really want to talk about any of it, but the telling did make a fine tale.

The wizard took a deep breath. "But from those paths I returned, or was sent back, for my task is not done." He had lain for a long time on the mountaintop before the Lord of Eagles, Gwaihir, found him and took him to Lothlorien.

I sat up at this. He brought messages from the Lady Galadriel, and I wondered what she would say to me. A word of condolence, perhaps? Or something more along the lines of, "You've failed. Return, and I will send you back"? I did not think the Lady so uncouth, but there was always the possibility.

The first message was for Aragorn, a cryptic rhyme about the Rangers and a path to the sea watched by dead men. I stored it up in my head, just in case I might understand it later. Legolas had a poem also, warning him of the sea. I didn't get that one, either, but it was quite pretty.

Mithrandir came to me next. "To you, daughter of earth, I was told only to say: 'Pray, Firiel, for One God made all Earths'."

I stared at him in dismay. "Was there no other message, my lord, for these words I have heard from the Lady in person?"

"Well," the wizard said, raising one bushy eyebrow, "have you been praying?"

I had nothing to say to this, and shut my mouth rather quickly when Mithrandir moved on to Gimli. Galadriel had sent her greetings to the Dwarf, and other things, which the wizard whispered in Gimli's ear.

Boromir had told me about a tavern on the fourth level of Minas Tirith called the Dancing Dwarf, and of some rather spectacular indiscretions committed there by himself and his cousins some years ago that had irrevocably changed the décor. I had laughed and said I'd like to see the place, but had never thought to behold an actual Dwarf dancing. Gimli jigged about, singing in Khuzdul and swinging his axe. I got out of the way as quickly as I could.

This went on for some time, until Mithrandir stood up, slapped the dust from his robes, and announced that we had need of haste.

'About time,' I thought, hobbling after them down the stairs. I nearly tripped twice, so when we reached level ground, Legolas discreetly offered me his arm. Grateful, I took it, and we made our way back to the Entwash.

The horses had not returned. "It will be a long walk," Legolas remarked, off hand, as if he were not currently supporting 90 of my weight.

"Then we shall not walk," Mithrandir declared. "Did I not say we had need of haste?" He raised his head and whistled a high, clear note, sweet and piercing and beautifully modulated. My fingered itched to duplicate it on my pipe, and after the third time, I thought I might be able to do it.

A horse whinnied to us from the plains, sounding like neither Arod, Legolas' horse, nor Hasufel. Before long, hoof beats joined the sound. Aragorn threw himself to the ground and reported that there was certainly more than one horse. Not really registering taking Galadriel's words to heart, I offered up a fervent prayer of thanks.

Legolas gazed out across the plains. "There are three horses," he said. "Hasufel and Arod return to us, but ahead of them runs a great gray horse whose like I have never seen before."

Mithrandir explained that this was Shadowfax, chief of the Mearas. The pride in his voice made me smile as he described the beautiful creature running toward us. "The mount of the White Rider has come for him. We are going to war together."

As the wizard spoke, Shadowfax loped up the hill to us, poor Arod and Hasufel far behind. He was six hands higher than any other horse I'd ever seen, and his coat was the color of a Weimaraner dog. His hooves gleamed like polished steel.

He slowed and whinnied again as he saw Mithrandir, then trotted forward to nuzzle his neck. They made quite a picture, the wizard who could not decide whether to be gray or white with his arms around the great silver horse, talking softly to it.

When our horses came up, Aragorn and Legolas went to them and tried to make up for some of the attention Shadowfax was getting, though it was plain that even his fellow mounts thought he deserved it.

Mithrandir addressed the horses. "We go to Edoras, and the hall of Théoden King, your master. Time presses, so we will ride, with your leave, at all speed. Hasufel shall bear Aragorn and Arod Legolas and Gimli. Firiel shall sit before me on Shadowfax, if he will bear her."

A little miffed that he had asked the horse's permission and not mine, I began, "Hasufel and I have reached an understanding. Take Gimli with you; he is no horseman." The Dwarf nodded vigorously at this.

Aragorn came over to me. "Shadowfax will provide you the smoothest ride. You would do well to coddle that leg if you wish to have any use of it in the future. I shall take Gimli with me, and then he will at least have the benefit of a saddle."

I cut my eyes at the wizard, and then back to Aragorn. "But I'd rather ride with you." It was true.

Astonishment, and then a small smile passed over the Ranger's countenance. He dipped his head to me. "He will not hurt you, whatever misgivings Boromir may have had about his character. Go. We travel at the pace of the slowest horse, and I'd rather not be riding it. Go!"

Still stewing over this compromise as they levered me up onto Shadowfax, I heard Legolas put in the final piece of last night's jigsaw puzzle as he spoke to the wizard. "The horses fled in fear of Saruman, but they met Shadowfax, their chieftain, with joy. Did you know he was near, Mithrandir?"

"I called him," the wizard answered, a trifle smugly, "with my thoughts, for yesterday he was far to the south." He mounted with much more grace and less groaning than I had thought possible for a person of his obvious age.

With a few words to Shadowfax, we set off at a slow trot, then a canter, so the others could keep up. Turning sharply to cross the river, we splashed across and continued south into a flat treeless land, the tall grass like gray waves, rippling in the wind. Under me, I felt Shadowfax switch leads, stretching his legs into a gallop. This jarred my leg only a little: Aragorn had been right about the smooth ride. I wondered if all of the Mearas came with built in suspension.

"He makes for the base of the White Mountains and Meduseld," Mithrandir spoke in my ear. It is the quickest way, and Shadowfax knows every fen and hollow."

I nodded, still not comfortable with my proximity to the wizard, whom I did not know. We got better acquainted very quickly, riding for hours over marsh and mud, and through grass so tall it reached Shadowfax's flanks. He ran on, into the sunset.

As the day's light died, smoky red and slightly scary, Mithrandir pointed to our right at a barely visible gap between what I supposed must be the White Mountains and the Misty Mountains. "There is the Gap of Rohan, and through it, Isengard." I stored this up in my head for future reference.

Behind us, Legolas called, "Mithrandir, what is that great cloud of smoke?"

"Battle and war!" the wizard shouted. "Ride on!"


	27. Revelations in the Dark

Chapter Twenty-Six

Revelations in the Dark

We stopped to rest only when it was fully night, all of us terribly stiff. I had to be pried off Shadowfax, and collapsed in a heap, nearly sobbing. Aragorn sensed it, even in the dark, as did Mithrandir, I think. They converged on me, and the Ranger examined my bandages by the light of the wizard's staff.

Though he said nothing, I could tell Aragorn did not like what he saw. Twisting around, I agreed. Angry red streaks stretched up my right arm and leg, and the wounds themselves had not scabbed over. Recognizing the preliminary signs of blood poisoning, I swallowed hard and asked, "Am I going to die?"

"No," said Aragorn, and put a hand on my head.

"Not yet," Mithrandir qualified, leaning closer with the light.

Much comforted by this, I locked eyes with the Ranger. "Swear to me, on your lady's life and on the hilt of Anduril, that, should I be unable to protest it, you will not cut off either my arm or my leg, nor allow another to do so." I saw his eyes go hard, and then suspiciously blank. He did not move. I blinked back tears, wondering what I could do to convince him. "Please," I whispered, "I would rather die than live a cripple."

Aragorn's mouth twitched with some emotion I could not name, and then his right hand went to his heart and his left to Anduril's hilt. "I so swear."

Mithrandir rolled his eyes. Both of us saw him, and this broke the moment. Aragorn returned to his dressing, and I lay back on the icy grass, sighing.

"Aragorn," the wizard began quietly in Elvish, "I had meant to wish you many happy returns of the day, if it is not tomorrow yet. Which is this, eighty-eight or eighty-nine?"

The Ranger froze. "You know well it is eighty-eight," he muttered in the same tongue. "Need we discuss your age, old man?"

"I have been reborn," said the wizard smugly, "and as such have not even one year to my tally."

"So you must concern yourself with mine?" Aragorn snorted.

The wizard coughed. "I believe you are upset because I have not brought you a present."

Not deigning to answer this, Aragorn stood and wiped his hands on a corner of his cloak. "If I am to be of any use tomorrow, I must rest. Do what you can." To me, he said, "Firiel, sleep if you can. If not, wake me, and I will give you a draught. It would be better if you could do without, for we ride before dawn, and it will last far longer."

I nodded as well as I could from a prone position and, as Aragorn lay down next to Legolas and Gimli's prone forms, heard Mithrandir mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "Young fool."

Grinning in spite of the pain, I asked, "Is he really eighty-eight?"

"He is," the wizard answered, "and may live to see as many years again. His blood is that of the Ancient Kings from across the Sea, the Numenoreans."

Galadriel had told me some of this, but even though I was very tired and sore, I wanted to know more. "And that blood gives him the right to Gondor's throne?"

Mithrandir touched the bandage on my leg, and I yelped in spite of myself. He took his time before answering. "The blood of Numenor runs in the veins of many, though not so many as there once were. But Aragorn is descended from Isildur, whose father was Elendil, High King of Gondor and Arnor. If anyone may claim that title now, it is Aragorn."

"But is not Lord Denethor the Steward of Gondor?" I asked, though I knew the answer. Boromir had filled the times when I would not talk about my family by speaking of his.

"He is, but a steward is not a king, which the line of Hurin has known for nearly a thousand years. They are merely placeholders, powerful ones, but without the throne."

I wondered how to phrase my next question. "How receptive will Lord Denethor be if Aragorn makes a claim for the throne?"

Mithrandir sighed. "I do not know. The Steward's mind has long been hid from me. I believe he will follow the decision of his Council."

This raised another question. "Will Aragorn make such a claim?"

Another sigh from the wizard. "That, only he may answer, though it may depend on the questioner and the manner of the asking." He fixed me with a glance that clearly said, 'Mind your own business.'

And I would, until I got to Gondor. There, I might find a problem. Boromir had described his father as a just man, but sometimes harsh, and prone to keeping his own counsel in all things. And though no one had ever come out and said it, I had inferred that the Steward favored his older son over the younger, though Boromir had said his brother was more like their father in temperament and perception.

With this in mind I laid my plans. At Edoras, I would beg a fresh horse and supplies from Théoden King, get directions from Aragorn, if he would not go with me, and ride posthaste for Gondor. Assuming I arrived unmolested by Orcs or other foes, I would seek out the Lord Faramir, in Ithilien or Minas Tirith, and tell him my story. If his powers of perception were as keen a Boromir had described them, he would believe my tale. From there, I would ask for a position in his Rangers or among the general soldiery of Gondor. If he balked at this, I would play as my trump the fact that I'd already sworn allegiance to Gondor.

So many aspects of the plan could go wrong, the most immediate of which already had: my leg. While I stewed over this, I heard Mithrandir muttering to himself. "If only Radagast or Alatar were in my place. They have some skill with healing."

The second name he'd mentioned rang a bell within the foggy recesses of my memory. "And who may they be, lord?"

He did not look up. "Wizards of my Order; Radagast the Brown and Alatar the Blue."

Now a picture accompanied the name: a woman with straw-colored hair, wearing a blue caftan and bending over a silver basin filled with stormy water. A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with my fever or the chill air. My voice cracked as I asked, "This Alatar, where is she now?"

The wizard did look at me now, his gaze going straight out the back of my head. He moved away from me, and I sat up in spite of the pain. "Alatar and Pallando, the Ithryn Luin, were sent to other Earths, those that Eru created before and after Middle-Earth. They traveled east with Saruman and did not return. How is it that you have seen her? For your eyes tell me that you have."

"I-she sent me here, lord, on the grounds that my path lay in another realm-this one." It sounded pitifully vague, but I didn't know what else to say.

"How?" I wouldn't have minded a detailed answer to that myself.

"She had a basin that showed-things, much like the Lady Galadriel's. She told me not to touch the water in it, and I...did."

Mithrandir humphed. "She always was contrary. And, so?"

"So I awoke in Lorien, speaking the tongues of Elves and Men, helped at times by something in the back of my head. I think her presence is still with me, but I still do not know why I am here. Lady Galadriel sent me with the Fellowship-in your place, maybe, my lord-but I think you would have done a better job of-" How had Aragorn put it? "Keeping their minds off their troubles and Boromir's desire from the Ring."

The wizard snorted again. "You grow melancholy in your delirium. Sleep now. I will watch."

Slightly hurt, and with no real answers, I curled up around my pains and, after thinking that I would never fall asleep, I did. I dreamed about Madame Alatar, but she seemed to speak straight past me to Mithrandir. It was my dream, and I understood none of it.

It was still dark when Legolas shook me awake, but paused with his hand on my shoulder. "She burns with fever!"

Four anxious faces and one cool hand on my forehead later, I sat up, groaning. My head was floating somewhere above my left shoulder. The mere thought of standing, much less getting on a horse, was, well, unthinkable. I swallowed some water and lembas while Aragorn and Mithrandir held a hasty council.

The Ranger handed me a phial from his belt pouch, warning me not to swallow the contents until I had something substantial in my stomach. After dispatching Legolas to hunt and Gimli to gather wood, my remaining companions readied the horses and then simply sat by me until the others returned.

They were empty-handed. No wood to be found on a marshy plain, Gimli reported, and something had frightened the game away for miles. "More of Saruman's doings," Mithrandir grumbled.

Four pairs of eyes stared at me. I addressed Aragorn, holding up the phial. "This won't work on an empty stomach, will it?"

He hesitated, and then shook his head. "It would likely kill you."

I pressed the draught back into his hand, and began to pray. 'Boromir, Valar, God above, help me!' Something my mother used to quote flashed into my head: 'Sometimes grace is given to the undeserving in their hour of need, that they may go on.'

I levered myself up, but, having only one arm to push with, fell backwards with my right leg bent under me. Blinking back tears and spangles of pain, I looked up at my companions. "Help me?"

Strong, infinitely gentle hands lifted me, and even Shadowfax nuzzled my hand as they hoisted me onto his back. Once Mithrandir was behind me, and the others on their respective mounts, we set off.

I would not call the fevered, pain-filled daze I slid into sleep, but it took me away from the pounding horse beneath me, and the miles that passed beneath him. My mother visited me, speaking words of hope and comfort but slipping away before I could hold her. And so I knew it was not she. Boromir's voice was also in my mind, and his arms strong around me. I wept then, into the solid warmth of his chest, and he stroked my hair, but when I came back to consciousness, my cheeks were dry. He had gone.


	28. Meduseld

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Meduseld

Shadowfax had stopped. I lifted my head in time to see Mithrandir point. "Look!"

The mountains rose before us, snow-tipped and black-streaked, with the plains rolling up to them and around the small hills clustered at their base as if the grass wished to hold as much of its earth as possible. Valleys wound between the mountains, the widest of which opened in front of us. Within it my bleary eyes could glimpse a squat rock mass crowned by a tall peak that sparkled gold.

Mithrandir asked for a more detailed description from Legolas, and the Elf obliged. "A steam flows down from the snow, and from its mouth in the valleys shadow rises a green hill, encircled by a mighty wall. Inside are smaller houses and on the terrace stands a great hall, gold-roofed and with golden doorposts. These doors are guarded, but the rest within sleep still."

"The courts are called Edoras, and there is Meduseld, golden hall of Théoden King. With the rising of the day shall we come to it, but now our road lies clear before us. Legolas, I would guess that not all within Edoras sleep, so we must be wary when we ride: war is afoot in Rohan." With an injunction against drawing our weapons or speaking haughty words, he booted Shadowfax into a run.

The day lightened steadily: by the time we met the stream running down to the plains, the morning was bright around us. Fording the trickle, we urged our horses up the track that wound around the hill. At its foot, near the hill, were high grass lumps dotted with tiny white flowers. Mithrandir told us they were called simbelmyne, and grew only on graves.

Aragorn began to chant softly in Rohirric, and by the time he had finished, I could find the language in my head. Legolas remarked upon the quality of the language, and so milked a translation from Aragorn, who explained that the rhyme referred to Eorl the Young, who rode out of the North of his winged steed, Felarof.

We passed the silent grave-mounds and followed the winding way up to the walls of Edoras. At the gate, men bared our way with spears and demanded, in Rohirric, to know our business, glaring from under their helmets.

Mithrandir answered for all of us, also in Rohirric. I listened while he wrangled, glad that I understood the language. The guards did not like our looks, or the fact that we rode familiar horses. At their accusation that we were spies, Aragorn got involved, unleashing the full weight of his kingly sarcasm. As he did, the guards who had not spoken drew my attention. They were pointing. At me.

I knew what I must look like, with blood-soaked bandages on my right arm and leg, muddy boots, and half-healed slashes on my face. My hair hung lank and unwashed into my hood, and my clothes were in a similar state, except for the Elvish cloak, which remained defiantly pristine. I glared back at the men, who were now staring openly.

They snapped to attention, though, when Mithrandir demanded entrance once more. He'd stared down the spokesman, who now asked belligerently for our names to take to the Lord of the Mark.

"I am Gandalf," the wizard announced. "I have returned, and so has Shadowfax the Great, whom no other man may master. With me are Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of kings, who goes to Mundberg, and Firiel, the Lady of the White Tower, as well as Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, and Gimli Lock-bearer. Go now to Théoden King and tell him we will have speech with him, if he will permit us to come in."

The guard nearly tripped over himself agreeing, and disappeared inside the gate. His comrades really stared at me now, and I tried to look suitably regal.

Aragorn brought Hasufel alongside Shadowfax. "How fair you, my lady of the White Tower?" he asked quietly, voice warm with Elvish.

I ducked my head. "That title is not mine to bear, and well you know it." My words were directed equally at Ranger and wizard.

"Long has it been since I studied the laws of Gondor," Aragorn replied, "but I believe that, as widow (for so the handfasting makes you) you retain all property and titles due the wife of the Heir, unless you should marry again."

"Oh," I said in a very small voice. Mithrandir put a hand on my shoulder, and then the guard returned, telling us to follow him and leave our weapons with the door-wardens.

When the gates opened, we dismounted and followed the man in. Mithrandir switched his staff to his right hand and offered me his arm. I took it, staff in left hand. The path was broad enough to walk two abreast. It climbed up, passing many small houses. A stream ran alongside, bubbling up from a fountain at the top of the hill.

It was more of a terrace, really, with a stair going up and guards sitting at the top with drawn swords. Their armor was beautifully enameled, and their mail gleamed as brightly as their blond braids. They rose as we approached, and our escort made his departure.

Mithrandir and I took some time to get up the stairs, so the others ascended first. We all made it up, though. My leg did not like having to bear weight again, and it made my delirium worse. In front of my, Aragorn kept turning into Boromir, and it was all I could do to remind myself that he wasn't.

"Hail, wanders from afar!" The wardens' greeting startled me from my squinting. They tipped the pommels of their swords to us in greeting, and one man stepped forward to introduce himself as Háma, Théoden's doorward. Then he asked for our weapons.

Legolas offered his knife and archery equipment first, warning that they came from the Golden Wood and the Lady Galadriel. Háma lad them aside as if they burned him, and promised that no one would touch them.

Aragorn hesitated. "I would not willingly deliver Anduril into the hands of another."

Háma stood firm. "It is the will of Théoden King."

"It is not clear to me," the Ranger replied acerbically, "whether Théoden's will should prevail over that of Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Elendil's heir of Gondor."

"This is Théoden's house, not Aragorn's, even were he king of Gondor." Háma barred our way. His sword was still out, and the point now dipped toward us.

"This is needless talk," Mithrandir interjected. "As needless as Théoden's demand, but we need not refuse. In his own house, a man's will, be he peasant or prince, is law."

Aragorn nodded, trying to glare at the wizard with one eye while not taking the other off Háma and his sword. "Were this a charcoal-burner's hut, I would do what the master of the house bade me, did I bear any sword besides Anduril."

Háma would not budge. "I care not what its name may be. Here it stays, if you would not fight alone against all the king's household."

"Not alone!" I'd wondered when Gimli would get into the discussion. He fingered his axe, sizing Háma up.

"Come now!" Mithrandir tried once more to play peacemaker. "We are friends here, or should be. Here is my sword, good Háma. The Elves made it long ago and called it Glamdring. Now let me pass. Come, Aragorn."

The Ranger made a large show of undoing his belt and setting sword and scabbard against the wall, telling Háma in a brisk tone all about its lineage. The warden was suitably impressed. Gimli followed suit with his axe soon thereafter.

Aragorn tried to push past Háma, but the door-warden cleared his throat and would not move. The Ranger divested himself of bow and quiver, and tried again. No dice. Sighing, Aragorn handed over hunting knife and daggers from boot- and wrist-sheaths. I nearly laughed in amazement: the man was a walking arsenal.

Háma still hadn't moved. He looked past the three hunters to the two invalids in the company, for so Mithrandir had begun to pretend to be. I didn't need to pretend. "I must ask you to leave your staves also."

While the wizard made noises of protest and outrage, I met the door-warden's eyes. "I will not leave my staff. It too was a gift from the Lady Galadriel, and I have need of it now. As a crutch." He was blind if he could not see what was wrong with my leg.

Háma acquiesced, and turned to Mithrandir. "I am old," the wizard cut him off. "I too must lean on my staff, and if that is not permitted, then I shall sit here until it pleases Théoden King to hobble out himself to speak with me."

Aragorn took up for us, and Háma gave in under the concerted, if good-natured, browbeating. The guards unbarred the doors, which swung inward, and we entered.

Meduseld's air was warm, and scented with ancient smoke. The hall stretched long and wide, held up by carved pillars and lit by windows under the eaves and in the thatch.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I noticed the twining patterns in the floor tiles, patterns that seemed to travel up the pillars to the roof. Tapestries covered the walls, some new, some dark with smoke. A shaft of light fell upon one, depicting a man with flying blond hair seated on a rearing horse. Aragorn pointed him out to us. "Behold Eorl the Young, as he rode to battle from the North."

We proceeded past the hearth in the center of the hall. My leg was bearing up, but just barely. Mithrandir helped, and at some point I had reached within myself and found a reserve of strength shown only to those who have passed their last bastion of hope and still need to go on. I did not know what I would do when that strength ran out.

Past the brazier, we halted. At Meduseld's far end stood a dais, and on that dais stood a throne. On that throne slumped a wizened dwarf of a man whose long white hair fell over his circlet and shoulders. His beard straggled unkempt to his knees, but his eyes glittered as brightly as the diamond in his crown. So this was Théoden, Lord of the Mark.

Belatedly, I noticed the two figures beside him. They could not have been more different. A tall, blond woman, as pale as her white dress, stood behind the throne, and at the king's feet crouched a rat-like man with lank black hair.

No one spoke. The only sounds in the hall were the crackling of the fire and the king's labored breathing. At length, Mithrandir broke the silence. "Hail, Théoden son of Thengel! I have returned, bringing tidings of the coming storm. All allies should now gather together, lest they be destroyed one by one." 'If we do not hang together,' I thought, 'we shall most assuredly hang separately.'

The old king creaked slowly upright with the help of a cane. He was taller that I had realized, and must have been formidable in his younger days. "If you look for welcome," he rasped, "I greet you. But in truth your welcome is doubtful here, Master Gandalf. You are ever an herald of woe, with trouble at your heels. When Éomer brought tidings of your death, well, there was no mourning in Rohan. But here you come, with worse news than ever before, I warrant. Tell me, Stormcrow, why I should welcome you." He sank back into his throne.

'Rude old man,' I had time to think, before the creature at Théoden's feet spoke. "Just words, my lord," he began, his tone as oily as his hair. "Your son is not five days dead, and your nephew's traitorous intentions are now known." At this, the woman behind the king gasped, and gripped the back of the throne until her knuckles paled against the dark wood.

The greasy man ignored her, and continued. "From Gondor we hear that a Dark Lord now stirs in the East. There is ill news enough in Rohan without you, Stormcrow."

"Wise you are accounted, Wormtongue, and no doubt a great aid to your king." Mithrandir mocked his soft tone. "Yet a man may come with evil tidings in two ways: he may work evil, or he may come to help in evil times."

Wormtongue acquiesced. "A third kind there is also: a meddler, a carrion crow who grows fat in time of war. You bring no aid. Your last visit robbed us of Shadowfax. What will you take from us now, you and your four ragged friends in gray?"

"The courtesy of Meduseld is not what it once was," Mithrandir said, looking past Wormtongue. "Were you not told the names of your guests? Those who stand before you and the weapons they left at your door are worth many valorous men. Gray are their cloaks, for so the Elves clothed them in Lothlorien."

Again, Wormtongue answered for the king. "So you 'are' in league with the Sorceress of the Wood, as Éomer reported. Webs of lies and magic were ever made in Dwimordene."

Gimli stepped forward to defend his Lady; Mithrandir stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. The wizard had had enough. He removed his arm from mine, muttering under his breath, and...changed. Throwing aside his gray cloak, he held up his staff and spoke:

"The wise speak of what they know, Grima, Galmod's son. You are only a witless worm, so be silent and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to speak with you. The lightening strikes!"The wizard raised his staff, and the entire hall shook with crack of thunder. The windows darkened, and even the fire faded to embers.

But we could still see Mithrandir, tall in pristine white robes. Wormtongue yelped something about taking the wizard's staff away, and well he might, for said staff flashed and sent him sprawling to the floor, silent.

"Now will you hearken to me, Théoden King?" Mithrandir inquired, lifting his staff again. Light returned to one window. "Not all is dark. Take courage, lord, step out and look at your land. You have sat in the shadows too long."

Théoden rose stiffly, and as he did, the light returned. The woman behind the throne came forward and took the king's arm, helping him through the hall. Wormtongue remained where he was. When the king and his escort neared the doors, Mithrandir knocked, proclaiming, "The Lord of the Mark comes forth!"

When everyone watched him, I hobbled to catch up with my companions. On my laborious way to the door, Théoden's blond companion passed me on her way back inside. Apparently, her support was no longer required. She stopped a little past me and looked back, and her resemblance to my sister struck me like a runaway semi. Amy's hair was dark, of course, like mine, but after Mom's death, when she was the only one there to care for Dad, her mouth had pinched like that, into a dutiful frown that told the world her to-do list was far too long. This woman-she could not have been much older than me-had eyes only for Aragorn, and, unlike Amy's, her eyes dared to hope.

I did not know what to make of it, so I continued limping out onto the terrace, arriving in time to see the king throw down his walking stick and straighten to his full height. The years seemed to fall away from him; he no longer appeared ninety or more, and I would have put his age at a dignified sixty-five.

The view from the terrace took my eyes from Théoden's transformation by virtue of sheer beauty. Sheets of rain fell over the verdant plains in curtains of silver-gray, but the storm had already begun to recede southward. The sun had split the clouds behind us, and not even the high wind could rob us of the light.

"My dreams have been dark," the king was saying, "but now I have awakened. I would you had come sooner, Gandalf, for Meduseld shall not stand long now, and fire shall devour the high seat. What shall we do?"

'Well,' I thought, 'so much for hope,' but Mithrandir, as always, had a plan. "First, send for Éomer," he said, "for did Wormtongue not bid you hold him captive?"

Théoden admitted that he had, since Éomer had disobeyed his commands and threatened Wormtongue's life. Mithrandir dismissed this, saying that loving the king and loving Wormtongue were two different things. Théoden capitulated and sent Háma to fetch Éomer. And then he smiled. Lines smoothed from his face, and I saw that he must have been handsome in his youth.

The wizard led Théoden to one of the guards' seats, and we stood nearby, or leaned, in my case. Mithrandir sat in front of the king and spoke quietly to him for a long time. I guessed that he was apprising Théoden of the situation in Mordor and elsewhere, but some of it must have been good news, because a gleam grew in the king's eye. When the wizard finished, both rose and looked to the east, speaking together of Frodo's journey. And hope.

I joined the others in looking eastward, but I could not see to Mordor of even to Minas Tirth. Disappointed in spite of the beautiful vista I 'could' see, I wondered if it might be all right to sit in the king's presence, if one were in great pain. Somehow, I didn't think so, so I gritted my teeth against the biting wind and told my leg it'd have to bear up a bit longer.

King Théoden sank into his seat at last, his weariness threatening to return. "Alas," he said, looking back at the hall, "that these evil days should be mine, instead of the peace I have earned in my old age." His eyes fell on me, and he half-whispered, "Alas also for Boromir the brave! The young perish and the old are left to wither." His wrinkled hands convulsed on his knees, and I wanted to go to him very badly, but fear of losing my balance and falling to my death kept me from moving.

"Your hands would remember their strength better if they held a sword," Mithrandir observed, almost offhand.

Théoden stood and reached for a sword that no longer hung by his side. "Where has Grima put it," I heard him mutter.

"Take mine, dear lord," a familiar voice said from the stairs. "It has ever served you." Éomer stood there, looking considerably worse than the last time I'd seen him, and wearing only a shirt and breeches. But he was grinning, and now knelt to offer his sword, hilt first, to the king.

When Théoden stood and demanded to know how this had happened, Éomer and Háma could only stare at him for a long moment. I suppose he looked quite different from the decrepit creature they had last seen.

At last Háma found his voice and admitted that he had understood Éomer was to be set free, and so he had given him back Gúthwinë, his sword.

"Only to lay it at your feet, lord," Éomer reassured his uncle, still proffering the hilt.

Théoden looked as if he did not know what to do, and only stared at Éomer until Mithrandir prodded, "Will you not take the sword?"

Tentatively the king reached out and took it. Suddenly his arm seemed able to hold it, and he proved this by swinging it through the air in the blur of a pattern dance. Éomer nearly tripped on the stairs backing up from the whirr that was his own blade. Théoden raised his voice in a war-chant, a call to arms.

The guards from the gate joined Éomer on the stairs, following his lead by laying their swords at the king's feet, crying as one for Théoden to command them. He sent Háma for his sword, gave Éomer's back, and embraced his nephew. Motioning Éomer to a seat beside him, the king asked Mithrandir for his counsel.

"You have already taken it by trusting in Éomer instead of Wormtongue," the wizard replied. "Now you must remove the threat of Saruman. Send every warrior that can ride west at once, and those who cannot should make for Dunharrow, taking only what provisions they need to that refuge."

Théoden nodded and dispatched guards to tell everyone to get ready. He then offered us hospitality, or at least a bed for the night. I wondered if it was a good time to ask for a horse to take to Gondor, and sidled closer to the king's seat so as to be in a good position to do so.

Aragorn spoiled my plans by saying we must ride today, refusing even a night's rest, so I decided I'd wait for a more opportune moment. Éomer clapped the Ranger on the shoulder, still grinning. It was my turn to grin when Mithrandir burst his bubble.

"Isengard is strong," the wizard cautioned, "and there are other perils." He addressed the king. "Do not delay in leading your people to the hills."

Théoden declared that he would ride to war himself, which was met with much rejoicing all 'round, but everyone shut up when the hall doors swung open and out came Wormtongue, in Háma's custody. The guard also carried the king's sword, which he returned to him.

There followed a long discussion concerning what was to be done about Wormtongue. Feeling myself begin to slip in and out of consciousness, I tried to concentrate on the words as a means of keeping myself in this world. It nearly worked, but they were a long time in deciding. The obsequious Grima alternated between declaring his innocence and calling Mithrandir and the king liars as they listed his crimes. Even Éomer got in on the action: apparently Grima had been stalking his sister, Éowyn.

I could no longer feel my arm or my leg by the time Mithrandir accused the oily counselor of working for Saruman. I was glad for the relief from pain, but at the same time horribly frightened that I would never regain that feeling. Vaguely aware that the king had offered Wormtongue a choice: to ride to war in his service, or to leave Rohan forever, I watched the stooped man gather himself in front of Théoden, barely five feet away from me.

Hands flexing as though he would strangle his former master, Wormtongue glared, eyes darting everywhere. He apparently thought better of violence, though, and only spit at the king's feet. The crowd gasped in collective outrage, but he darted for the stairs.

Éomer would have grabbed the spiteful worm, but he dodged out of the Warden's grasp, directly in front of me. Swearing when I could not move out of his way fast enough, Grima barreled into me.

My staff flew from my hands as I stumbled, tripping on the stone flags, falling backwards. My head cracked on the tiles, fireworks of pain sparkled behind my eyes, and I knew no more.


	29. The White Lady of Rohan

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The White Lady of Rohan

I woke to a woman bending over me. Tall and fair, she wore a flowing white dress that shone only slightly less than the golden hair that fell in waves past her waist. I stared up at her, determined to say something cognizant in spite of the pain in my head. Taking a deep breath, I croaked, "Where is my staff, and where is my flute?"

The woman, whom I recognized as the one I had seen standing with the king, reached beside the bed for a cup of water, which she held to my parched lips. "They are here. The Lord Aragorn commanded them to be brought. He said you would want them."

"Where is the Lord Aragorn?" I asked when she had taken the cup away.

After a moment's hesitation, she answered. "He is not here. But it was he who healed you."

"Healed me?" I did not feel healed. There was a lump the size of a softball on the back of my head, and when I moved to keep weight off it, it jarred my arm and leg. Which, I slowly realized, did not hurt that much. I could feel them, and they only ached a bit.

She nodded. "He is a mighty healer. You have slept for a night and a day. It is now night again."

I looked wildly around. My staff I could see leaning against the wall, and my flute lay on the nightstand, but where were my clothes? The shadowy, tapestried room did not seem to contain them. Under the bedclothes I wore a white nightgown that I could not remember putting on. Breathing through my nose, I tried to remain calm. "Where are my clothes," I wanted to know, "and where is my pack?"

The latter she brought out from behind an inlaid armoire, but my clothes had apparently been taken away for cleaning. I gritted my teeth and switched my head to Rohirric. "My lady, I thank you for your hospitality and for caring for me in this way, but I must go. I have kept my friends waiting far too long as it is." Pushing the blankets back, I threw my legs over the side of the bed.

"They have gone."

Busy examining the back of my right leg, I did not really register what she had said. The angry red streaks had disappeared, and the weeping gash had knit in a smooth line surrounded by healthy pink skin. I thought it would bear my weight, horseback or afoot. My arm looked the same.

I glanced up, "Pardon?"

She spoke very slowly, as one might to a simple child. "Your friends have ridden to war without you, as my uncle and brother have ridden without me. They left after you were safely sleeping. Now they are likely at Helm's Deep, doing battle. They have gone without you."

I stared at her, and then, I am sorry to say, lost my temper. Without actually doing any swearing, I described in great detail (and five languages) exactly what I would do to Aragorn when he returned. When I began to repeat myself, I moved on to Mithrandir, whose idea it had probably been in the first place.

The woman listened with a faint smile. When I ran out of breath, she said, "You mind me of my brother Éomer when one of his mares has turned a foal." Pressing a mug of broth into my hands, she turned away, and then looked back, the smile still playing over her lips. "All of your speech I did not understand, but what I did, I would much like to see." She held out a hand to me. "Éowyn am I, Éomund's daughter."

So this was Éowyn, the king's niece and Éomer's sister. Also, from what I could remember, the object of Wormtongue's twisted desire. I sized up the woman before me. Superficially, she was very like the Lady Galadriel: tall, pale, and blond, with a core of strength inside her woman's body. But Éowyn's strength was human, hard and cold, not born of thousands of years of foresight. I switched the mug to my right hand, and took her hand. "Firiel. And my father's name is Céorl." It was the closest I could come to 'Charles' in Rohirric.

Her grip was strong; for all that her hand disappeared in mine. I could feel calluses from riding and swordwork, and suddenly I realized that this woman might be able to teach me a few things. "Will you lend me a horse?" I asked, letting go.

She shook her head. "The battle is already joined. You would never reach Helm's Deep in time."

"It is not to Helm's Deep that I would go. I would make for Minas Tirith, that you call Mundberg." The presence in the back of my head, which knew and loved Rohan, told me this.

She nodded. "Théoden King commanded that you be given a horse when you are able to ride."

I thought about this, miffed but slightly hopeful. My hand went to my head, to twirl a lock of hair around my finger as I ruminated, but my fingers encountered a matted mass. I looked up, inspired. "If I may not have a horse, may I at least have a bath?"

Éowyn's smile did not reach her eyes. "One is being prepared for you."

The tub was long enough to stretch out in, and filled with gloriously hot water. I soaked until that water was tepid, scrubbing everything and washing my hair twice. When I emerged, pink and wrinkled, I stepped back into my nightgown and found my way back to the bedroom.

Éowyn was still there, sitting at the table before the fire, bending over something. I thought she might be embroidering until I limped close enough to see that the garment, which glinted in the firelight, was a mail shirt. I had often seen Boromir do this, picking the chain over for rusted or faulty links and replacing them from a pile of new ones.

She looked up as I closed the door behind me, tilting her chin towards a tray of food that also sat on the table, but not speaking. I sat, suddenly ravenous, and tucked into stew, bread, and mead, also in silence. Éowyn continued to concentrate on her corselet, every now and then reaching for a new link or wrestling with the pliers. Sated and sitting back with the dregs of the metheglin, I watched her.

After a slow sip, I reached out and touched the grips. "If you have another pair of these," I offered, "I can help."

She did not look up. "I had not thought you to have much knowledge of mailcraft."

I winced, wondering how much Aragorn had told her about me. "Some," I said. "I used to help Boromir with his of an evening."

"Boromir of Gondor? The Steward's son?" Her gray eyes fixed me with the question.

I nodded. "He traveled with our company. I joined them when they passed through the Golden wood, and it was in my capacity as his squire that I repaired his mail." It hurt to speak of him even now, and I wondered why she was asking.

Éowyn nodded. "What manner of man was he?"

I had to wait a moment before I could give a fair answer in an even tone of voice. "A good one, strong and proud. He knew his duty."

Her mouth pinched. "That much I knew from his visits here, infrequent as they were." I suppose she caught the look on my face, because she hurried to explain. "I do not mean to pry, or disturb the memory of the dead. It is only that Lord Aragorn told me a strange thing: he said you were handfasted with the son of Denethor."

I hid my face in a long drink and did not reply.

"I see I have disturbed you. Well, I will speak plainly: my uncle thought to form an alliance with the White City though my betrothal to the Steward's elder son. I wished to know what manner of man I might have married."

I choked, spluttering the honey liquid all over my empty tray. When I regained both control and dignity I said, "Boromir told me none of this."

"He likely did not know. My uncle sent the rider to Mundberg scarcely two months ago." She spread the mail out over the table, producing another pair of pliers as well. Offering them to me by way, I thought, of apology, she bent to her work.

Beginning a patch of three links by five, I worked by touch, watching her from under my eyelashes. The more time I spent around her, the more she reminded me of Boromir. Like him, she was direct to the point of brusqueness, and courteous because of training and not by inclination. I took a deep breath and made my own overture of friendship by saying as much. "You are very like him. I am sure you would have gotten on well." 'Or torn each other to shreds,' I did not add.

"That comforts me," Éowyn said, finally. "If I were to leave Rohan for a city of stone, I would I would at least wish to wed with someone I could get on with."

'Over my dead body.' "But you did not love him or even know him!" my mouth protested before my brain could stop it.

She shrugged and wrestled a link away from its fellows. "Love comes after marriage, if at all. I will marry to seal a treaty, as the king's niece." She did not sound angry or resentful, only resigned.

"I loved him, for my part." The mead was beginning to loosen my tongue, and also to make me melancholy.

Éowyn took up my patch and began to fix it in place. I helped, taking one side, and our hands brushed in silence for a long moment. Moving on, I pointed out a few rusty links she'd missed, helping on those, too. When we finished, Éowyn held the garment up to the fire. It shimmered, moving like a living thing in the light.

She looked over it at me. "I thank you for your help. It is tedious work."

I inclined my head, standing as well. "Am I to sleep here tonight?"

"If you do not mind sharing a bed. This is my chamber." She bundled the mail up and laid it aside.

I stared, mortified. "I would not take it from you, my lady. Is there not another room?"

"There is not. Refugees from the Eastemnet and the Westfold fill every guest room, and I cannot lead them journey to Dunharrow until you, my lady, are able to travel."

I bit my lip, thinking. "Then I will lay a pallet on the floor, if you will lend me blankets and perhaps a pillow."

"If you are to find a spare blanket in all Edoras, you will have to take it from the stables." She disappeared into the wardrobe, to emerge a moment later in a nightgown much more dignified and less voluminous than mine, plaiting her hair.

I pulled my own, now-dry tresses from the neck of my gown and did the same, over my shoulder because my arm still would not bend to let me reach behind my head. Éowyn banked the fire and blew out the candles, turning down the lamp by the bed.

Pulling back the blankets, she got in one side and I got in the other. The bed was big, perhaps queen-sized, and I could lie comfortably without touching her or sharing a bolster. I heard her draw the drapes on her side, and did the same on mine. Safe and warm and full, I burrowed under the blankets, leaving only my head free.

"Goodnight, Firiel," she said quietly, slurring the second 'i' so that the name became 'Firel'.

"Goodnight, Éowyn," I replied, after getting over my astonishment and burying the urge to correct her pronunciation.

I do not know when I woke in the dark, but it was to the sound of sobbing, muffled by a pillow. I wondered if someone had sought refuge on the room with us, because I could not imagine Éowyn's sharp gray eyes filling with salt water. They were experienced tears, from someone who knew who to save up sorrow until they were alone. Similar sounds had often come from Amy's room, and I had ignored them.

Now I reached over to touch a slim, shaking shoulder. "My lady? Éowyn, what's wrong?" Although, I wanted to know less and less as the sobs went on.

She turned away from me, curling around her pillow. "Why have you come?" she demanded in a hitched, broken voice. "Why has Gandalf healed one invalid to leave in my charge another?" The sobs were quieter after she go this out, but angrier.

I thought about what she'd said. The wizard had healed her uncle, and then they had ridden off to war...leaving me to convalesce under her care. Had she wanted to ride to war, too? Had I kept her from doing so? Without answers to theses questions, I said the only honest, comforting thing I could think of: "My lady, I want to be here even less than you want me here. I will be well in a few days, and then you may ride to battle, or do whatever you please."

"No, I may not. Lord Aragorn may have laid the burden of your care upon me, but my uncle charged me to lead the people in his stead. The refugees must be led to Dunharrow, and some manner of defense mounted here." The resentment had left her voice, and now she sounded only tired.

I tried to be angry with her, but the feeling would not come. I felt sorry for her. "I will do my best not to be a burden, and will help in whatever capacity I may. You need not concern yourself." Still, the words emerged a bit frosty.

"I thank you," she said, matching my frost.

I lay rigid and unspeaking after this, and Éowyn did the same. Neither of us slept, but at least she had regained composure, to my relief and, I am sure, to hers. After a while, I ventured to ask, "What would you do, if you could do as you pleased?"

She answered instantly. "I would ride. Most women do, before they marry. Elfhelm would give me a place in his éored, and Rohan has need of all her warriors in these dark days."

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me in the dark. "So has Gondor, and I would go to her, for an oath I have sworn. But I cannot." I tried to speak around the lump that had appeared in my throat. "I cannot ride. I cannot even walk."

"You will yet. Where will wants not, a way opens." Her hand reached out to me under the covers.

I clasped it in mine. "And you will yet ride to battle and win renown." We lay in the dark, joined by common purpose and what might be friendship.


	30. Eolas

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Éolas

Author's Note: Thanks go to Bekah for the particulars of stall mucking and to Karen for the ideas about equestrian training. Mounting instructions are from The Good Master by Kate Seredy, and Aldor is Diana Galbadon's Old Alec. I had a lot of help writing this chapter, and probably need a lot more getting it right. I have never ridden in my life, so if you have, I'd appreciate your input on things I may have gotten wrong.

Why is it that my plot-driven chapters are shortest and the character-driven ones are longest? Oh well, here it is, the longest and debatably most character-driven chappie yet!

Éowyn rose at dawn, even though we had talked long into the night. I had told her about my plan to get to Gondor, and what I though I would do once I got there. She approved, and had in turn confided to me 'her' contingency plan: to dress in the nondescript armor of a Rider of Rohan, cover her hair with a helmet, and simply ride out. She had obviously been thinking about this for a long time, and we discussed the particulars. I could not remember falling asleep.

Swinging my feet over the other side of the bed, I kirtled up my skirt to look at my leg. I could not tell very much, so I stood up and jogged in place. The skin behind my knee stretched but did not hurt; the leg was weak but did not pain me if I favored it. Feeling grudgingly grateful to Aragorn and his healing hands, I shoved up my right sleeve and flexed my bicep. The same.

Grinning fit to split my face, I crossed to the table and planted my elbow on it. "Éowyn!" I flexed my fingers experimentally as she looked up, grinned, and joined me at the table, having gotten the hint. I shudder to contemplate what a servant might have thought had one stuck his head in and found me arm-wrestling the Lady of Rohan, but none did.

Éowyn won all five times, but I did not give in without a fight. The pain had gone, but so had the strength. In desperation, I switched hands. Éowyn obliged me, a small smile playing over her lips, and proceeded to beat me, if possible, more easily than before. I stared at her, as I've always been quite good with my left hand. And then- "Are you left-handed?"

She nodded and went to finish dressing in a serviceable gown of brown wool. As she was pulling on fur-lined boots, I asked, "Am I well enough to ride now?" Éowyn shrugged. "Can you teach me?" I pressed.

"Teach you what?" She looked up, puzzled.

"How to ride."

Her puzzled look turned to a stare of astonishment. "You cannot ride? I had thought your leg merely prevented you from it."

"It did that." I rummaged through my pack to hide my embarrassment. "But I'd never ridden, even before I took the wound."

She shook her head. "Do women not ride, in your land? How do you go about?"

I simplified quickly. "No one rides, really, except for sport. To travel, we ride about in carts, or sail ships, or walk."

"I cannot countenance such a thing. My father gave me my first pony when I was four. I could ride before I could read, and nearly did not learn that, being prone to escaping from my lessons to go riding with my brother." She shook her head, bending to a bootlace. "But I suppose it is not so in all lands."

"So will you teach me?" I asked again.

"We shall see." She stood and smoothed her skirt.

I thought I'd better do something about clothes for myself. I had found a silver under-tunic and black over-tunic and leggings in my pack, and my other clothes had been washed and returned, but somehow I did not think these appropriate for wear around Edoras, whatever I might be doing.

Éowyn looked over at them, echoing my thoughts. "If you mean to do useful work of any kind, those will not serve you."

I nodded. "Have you something I might borrow?" I hated to keep asking her for things, but there didn't seem to be any help for it.

She crossed to a trunk and rummaged in it for a moment before coming up with a pair of dark wool trousers and a long, off-white shirt, which she handed to me. "These are yours?" I asked, taking them.

"Yes. We are much of a size."

I looked down at my body, swathed as it still was in the nightgown. In the bath last night, I had noticed that I'd lost weight, and gained a bit of muscle. My legs were leaner and my stomach flatter, but I was still wider in the hips that Éowyn. My hands went to my face, feeling the ridges of slashing scars. It had been so long since I'd seen my own face that I could scarcely remember what I looked like. Glancing up, I saw that Éowyn was braiding her hair in a coronet, a tricky task at best, and waited until she'd finished to ask, "You may think me vain, but have you a looking glass, as well?"

She nodded and went to find one. I took advantage of her absence to change into Éowyn's clothes, as well as clean undergarments from my pack. I also found a spare leather tie near my boots, and had put my hair up by the time she returned.

The mirror was polished brass, giving a near perfect reflection even in the lamplight. I sat on the bed and examined my face in the burnished surface. It had grown thinner, but not even the scars could make it remotely fierce. My mouth was still wide, and I was glad my teeth had not rotted all those nights I'd eaten lembas and not brushed. Elvish food was probably cavity fighting. Strong brows and a straight nose completed a face that that might be beautiful, I could not tell. I put the mirror away quickly so Éowyn wouldn't think me narcissistic.

Standing, I asked, "What do you do now?"

"We shall see what the kitchens may have to offer by way of breaking our fast, and then I must inventory and pack supplies for the journey to Dunharrow." Éowyn led the way through a maze of torch-lit passages to the kitchens, still explaining. "It is tedious work, and I have a surfeit of clerks to assist me, so you may do as you please."

As I thought about what I might please to do, Éowyn pushed open the doors and into the smoky miasma of Rohan's kitchens. A cacophony of sights and smells greeted us, as well as a chorus of "Fair morn, my lady," from the cooks and servants. Meat for the midday meal already turned over three spits, and I could smell bread in the great ovens. Pots of various sizes and with various good smells steamed over half-a-dozen hearths, tended by sweating underlings.

Éowyn accepted two bowls of honeyed porridge, I handled two mugs of cider, and we made our way through the bustling throng in search of a table on which no one was chopping vegetables or butchering meat. Eventually we found one and plunked ourselves down at it.

"Why eat here?" I wondered aloud.

Éowyn set down her mug. "You think it not grand enough for the king's niece and her guest?" I shook my head. "When I do not dine in state with my uncle, I come here. This is the first place I felt at home after my parents' death, when Éomer and I came to live in Meduseld."

"How did your parents die?" I asked, stirring my porridge to help it cool. "If you would tell me: I do not mean to pry."

She shook her head. "All here know the tale. You would hear it sooner or later. My father, Éomund, was chief Marshall of the Mark, and wed to the king's sister, Théodwyn. Orcs led him into a trap and ambushed his éored. My mother pined away in sorrow and died shortly afterwards. I was seven and Éomer eleven."

We ate in silence for sometime while I chewed this over. I did not want to apologize for something I'd had no part in, but didn't know how to offer my sympathy another way. I remembered all the people who'd come to me, at Mum's funeral and afterward, with condolences and casseroles, pretending they knew my pain. What had comforted my most, if anything comforted me in those days, had been the silent hugs and touches, and the stories of similar grief. I wanted to let Éowyn know I'd felt her sorrow.

I put out a hand to cover hers. "My mother fell not two years ago, and my father's mind is gone from grief and sickness. My sister cares for him."

She squeezed my hand, and we finished our meal in silent commiseration.

As we took our dishes to the great bank of sinks along on of the kitchens' walls, Éowyn asked me again how I wished to spend the day.

I thought a moment. "Have you some work I might do--hard work to build my strength--that leaves little time for contemplation." The last thing I wanted to do was think about anything and everything. The man I loved was dead, and I'd awakened memories of my family that I'd thought long buried. In addition, my friends had left me behind to ride to a battle of no certain outcome. No, I did not want to think at all.

Éowyn nodded. "Aldor Stablemaster may have need of help mucking out the stalls, for he has been left with many horses and few men to tend them. That is hard work, and mindless. It is also filthy." She glanced sideways at me.

Lovely, manure. Well, I'd asked for it. And I remembered someone telling me that mucking stalls was a good way to build upper body strength. "I care not," I said in my best Boromir imitation.

So, after we bowed our way out of the kitchens, Éowyn took me to the stables. Set just down the hill from Meduseld, the structure looked much like the Hall, though with a lower roof, and was nearly as ornately decorated, like a cathedral to the Rohan's lifeline: their horses.

Waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, I inhaled deeply, smelling hay and manure and, everywhere, horse. Éowyn caught me at it, and we shared a grin. Around us, a thousand small, contented noises greeted our arrival, inquisitive knickers and small whinnies of welcome. I squinted up at the carved pillars, and started when Éowyn said, "Fair morn, Stablemaster."

A squat figure in leather breeks and rough shirt, the man had an air of authority sufficient, I thought, to quell the most recalcitrant stallion. A black cloth patch covered one eye, but, as if to make up for the loss, his eyebrows spouted profusely from a central point, sporting long gray hairs like insect's antennae that waved threateningly from the basic brown tufts.

After an initial bow of acknowledgement, he ignored me and spoke directly to Éowyn. I rather lost interest during a long discussion involving the parentage of several no doubt distinguished horses not among those present, details of breeding records of the entire stable for several years, and a number of incomprehensible points of equine confirmation, dealing with hocks, withers, shoulders, and other items of anatomy. Since the only points I noticed on a horse were nose, tail, and ears, the subtleties were lost on me.

As Éowyn and the Stablemaster became more and more engrossed in their discussion and paid less and less attention to me, my eyes wandered around the expanse of space represented by the stables. I wondered if it might be permissible to simply pick up a shovel and go to. As I looked around for one, I noticed a figure loitering in the shadows a few paces behind the Stablemaster. Squinting, I could only make out that he had blond hair, like the rest of the Rohirrim, and wore a large round something on his left shoulder that flashed even in the dim light.

He was gone a moment later, and I had still not found a shovel. Rolling my eyes at the horsy conversation still going strong, I nudged Éowyn. She ignored me. I cleared my throat. Still no response. I wondered if I should fall over, or if even that would distract the two equine enthusiasts, Sighing, I sidled sideways and trod heavily on Éowyn's boot with the heel of my own.

She winced and shot me a dirty look, mostly, I thought, because I'd reminded her why she'd come to the stables in the first place, and that inventories awaited her up at the Hall. "Stablemaster," she began with a forced smile, "I have found you another hand. If you will in turn find her spade and barrow, she will assist you in mucking out the stalls."

At his dubious look, I removed my boot from Éowyn's foot and nodded vigorously. He made her another bow then, and she took herself off, reluctantly. Motioning me with a gnarled hand, the Stablemaster stumped to a horseless box containing a shovel and a rough wooden wheelbarrow. With another jerky wave at a bank of stalls I assumed must need cleaning, he stumped off, leaving me to stare after him, nonplussed. Saying that Aldor Stablemaster was a man of few words would have bordered on ironic understatement.

I threw open the door of the first stall, and the scent of old dung assaulted my nostrils. The mat of filth and straw that greeted my eyes was even less appetizing. Trying not to breath, I set to work. Chipping away at the caked manure was miserable, like picking at noxious clay. By the time I finished, begrimed and sweating, my muscles trembled with exertion.

The barrow nearly full of various-sized clods, I moved on to the next stall, thinking that the work could scarcely get any worse. A well-fleshed palomino mare occupied this box. She blinked myopically at me as I rootled about under her hooves.

Although this hay had been changed more recently, most of the muck had gathered towards the back, under the horse's hindquarters. I edged around her with my shovel, and then out again with a load of manure. I went back for a second scoop, noticing that her ears had begun to flick back and forth. Shrugging, I shoveled under another clump, shaking the spade to dislodge the clean straw. As I tried to slide between the stall wall and the horse's side, a space that had gotten narrower, the mare sidled closer to the wall, pinning me between her flank and the boards.

Groaning at the position she'd sandwiched my arm, not to mention the rest of my body, in, I tried to wiggle free. The horse did not budge, so neither did I. Certain that neither Éowyn not the Stablemaster would look kindly upon my bashing one of their horses with the shovel, I swallowed my pride and raised my voice in a call for help.

At first, it was answered only by soft horse noises, but then high, dimpled cheekbones and bright green eyes appeared over the stable wall. The face, like mine, was smudged and bore a sheen of perspiration. Bits of straw lodged in the boy's thickly curling blond hair, and the magnificent brooch, enameled in the form of two running horses, nose to tail, on his shoulder told me this was the figure I'd seen in the shadows earlier. He lounged over to the stall's half-door, attitude casual and step oddly bobbing.

"Is it a problem you're having?" he inquired in badly constructed Westron.

"Yes!" I spat in fluent Rohirric. "This horse will not let me out."

He switched back to what was obviously his native tongue. "She's carrying a foal. It makes her touchy." He made no move to help me.

"Yes, I can see that." My patience wore ever thinner. "Kindly call the horse. I have work to be about."

"Stalls you don't muck will be ones I do," he replied, still placid and smirking. Still unmoving.

"Stalls I muck will be ones you don't have to!"'Could he not see reason?'

This drew a scowl from him. "I did not ask for your help."

"No, I asked the work of the Lady Éowyn." I truly did not want to pull rank on him, but he was trying my patience and the horse was hurting my leg.

His eyebrow lifted, and he opened the door, clucking and calling softly to the horse, whose name was apparently Fréa. With a final scrape, she ambled out, leaving me to peel myself off the wall and finish the stall. The stable boy leaned on the mare's neck, watching me.

Limping out with the final shovel-full of manure, I filled the barrow, and then glanced at the boy, who had led the mare back into her box and now eyed me solicitously. "Where should I dump this?"

He jerked his head toward the stables' lower end, and then seemed to change his mind. Snatching the handles from me, he trundled away with my load, leaving me to stare after him. I noticed that the cause of his peculiar rolling gait was a right knee that would not bend. So that was why he, a male of perhaps seventeen, had been left in Edoras when the rest of the men had gone to war: he could not ride.

I plunked down on a bench, rolling up my trouser leg to rub at my scar, and that was how he found me when he returned. I stood up quickly, which my leg did not like, and tried to tuck my pants in surreptitiously.

The stable boy was not fooled. "What's amiss?" he wanted to know, more to gloat that to offer sympathy, I thought.

"I took a wound. To the leg. It is not fully recovered," I explained, to get him off my back. And then, by way of commiseration, I gestured at his frozen knee. "But you know something of that yourself." It was a safe bet, I thought, to assume he'd acquired his injury in some unnatural, likely Orcish way, as well.

As it was, it may have been right, but it was nowhere near safe. He glared at me, muttered something about women's work, and stalked off as well as his limp would let him. 'Well,' I thought, 'that's torn it.' Picking up my shovel, I got back to work.

I had done three more stalls, all comparatively easy, by the time he returned. I didn't know if the Stablemaster had ordered him back to work, or if he'd simply gotten tired of sulking, but now he began banging about with a vengeance. I found my wheelbarrow gone at the oddest moments.

Supposing he was very touchy about his leg, I stuck my head out the stall door as he returned with the barrow and offered, "I am sorry if I have given offense."

He glared at me again, which only served to accentuate the planes of his face, and did not answer

I tried again, gesturing to the wheelbarrow. "We are, after all, here on common purpose. . .friend." No cigar. Suddenly very annoyed with this surly, teenage person, I wondered why 'I' was apologizing to 'him'. He should be apologizing to me. I hated to think of what Boromir would have done to the little prig.

And suddenly, I 'was' thinking of Boromir, even though I had asked for work so mindless and hard it would not let me do so. Blinking against tears that welled up anyway, I glared at the stable boy, who was staring at me as if I might suddenly explode. I did not. Instead, I collapsed back onto the bench and buried my face in my hands, angry with this obnoxious person for setting me off and at myself for letting the tears out, but mostly at Boromir for dying.

The boy patted my head with a large mucky hand, which surprised me so much that I stopped sobbing and stared up at him. "Go away," I blubbered.

He did not go away. Instead, he offered me my shovel back. Mopping my face on one grimy sleeve, I took it. Taking this as a good sign, he reached into he pocket to retrieve a large grubby handkerchief, which he thrust at me, eyes still wary. "Don't cry any more. You'll frighten the horses." His tone made me think I'd frightened him more than I had the horses, at least to the point of arousing his latent chivalry.

"My apologies," I sniffed. "It is only- you have reminded me of my lord and husband, who is dead." Accepting the handkerchief, I blew my nose and blotted my eyes. I was not sure what to do with the now soggy and filthy cloth, so I not-quite-proffered it to the boy. Unconcerned, he stuffed it back into his pocket.

'Eew,' I thought, but decided to be polite. I set the shovel down and offered my hand. "Firiel of Gondor." The words emerged 'Firel of Mundberg', and I gritted my teeth at Mme. Alatar's translation.

The stable boy, whose name turned out to be Éolas son of Folcwine, took my hand with his own large calloused one, and grinned at me. The honest expression completely transformed his face, his teeth shining as white as the enamel on his running-horse brooch. He was beautiful, but he stirred nothing in my heart, which was reserved solely for Boromir of Gondor.

Éolas held my hand a little too long, so I pulled away and took up my shovel, saying briskly, "Well, we have stables to muck, have we not?"

A noncommittal grunt, and he got his own spade and set to work in a box opposite mine. With both of us working into the same barrow, it filled more rapidly that before, so after our third stall each and the tenth barrow trip, I gestured at the cart, and offered, even though my right leg and arm trembled with fatigue, "I can take that, if your knee pains you."

"Yours pains you more. And it is not women's work." He trundled off with the wheelbarrow.

I stared after him, sure he had meant it as a kindness but incensed all the same. It had been so long since I'd been faced with such blind prejudice against my gender that I did not know how to react for a moment. I wanted to shout after him that we'd been doing the same work for two hours, with the same degree of competency and filth. I wanted to smack his beautiful face, or wring his neck, or at least shake him.

I did none of these things. Hitching up my leg, I followed him out a low door into the chill wind. Carved out of the side of the hill on the other end of the stables were a collection of paddocks and corrals, not in use, but clearly frequented, and on the other side of these was the largest pile of manure I'd ever seen.

Éolas added our barrowful to it and then stooped to massage his knee. I did not gloat, give me credit, but remained silent behind him. He saw me watching, though, and straightened too quickly for comfort. The cold made my scars ache too, so neither of us lost any time in seeking the warmth of the stables again.

A messenger from Éowyn waited for me with an invitation to lunch with her up at the hall. I looked down at my filthy clothes and filthier hands, and said "Yes, of course." As the page departed, I caught sight of Éolas' wide eyes and slack jaw, and realized that he must think me a guest of the royal family, slumming. Well, there was no help for it.

Crossing to the wide trough that ran the length of Edoras' stables, I bent and sluiced the majority of the grime from face and hands in the icy water. When I looked up, Éolas was gone. Sighing, I left.

Lunch, a public, semi-formal affair, saw me seated on the dais next to Éowyn, looking down at the lower tables filled with refugees and servants, glad I'd had time to change in my Elvish garments and wash more thoroughly. I had not realized how starved I was until a scullion placed a haunch of venison in front of us, that Éowyn might carve it.

This she did with great aplomb, serving herself and me before passing the platter down to the lower trestle tables. I helped myself to vegetables and what appeared to be a savory bread pudding. When our plates were full, I turned to Éowyn, "How go the supply inventories?"

She made a face. "We have enough for the journey to Dunharrow. Once there, the stores in the caves must hold us. How goes the stable mucking?"

I swallowed my mouthful of carrots before answering. "Well. It is hard work, but I can feel my strength returning." It was mostly true, and I prayed she would believe me. "I shall leave tomorrow, if you will lend me a horse, and perhaps a map."

Three bites of venison, chewed very slowly, before she nodded. "A map we will give you, and supplies. But even a Meara will not carry a rider who knows nothing of horsemanship."

'So far, so good.' "You need not take yourself from your duties, unless you wish to. There is a boy who might teach me, though I he is lame himself." I had to ask myself, though, if I wanted to encourage the torch Éolas seemed to be carrying for me.

"I know the one. My cousin brought him here six years ago. Orcs attached his village, a small one near Snowbourne. He was the only survivor, though his knee was crushed beyond repair." Her matter-of-fact tone shocked me.

Éowyn caught my look and set her goblet down. "No, he cannot ride, and so will never fight or marry. But he lives, which is more than can be said for many who have encountered Saruman's horde. You should not pity him. He will not thank you for it."

She turned back to her plate, and I did the same, mind reeling. It seemed strange that I, who had suffered so much at the hands of Orcs and their masters, should have their evil brought home to me by another's injury. I felt a renewed fury well within me, and a new sense of purpose. 'This is why I must get to Minas Tirith,' I thought, as, somewhere between revenge and righteous ire, my resolve solidified. I finished my food quickly and excused myself.

Once back in serviceable clothes, I returned to the stables and located Éolas. He was currying a huge bay stallion, murmuring to the horse as he did so. "When you are done," I said, without preamble, "I should like your opinion about something."

His look said 'odd girl,' but he put away his brush and came out of the stall. I gestured to the stable proper. "Which horse would you choose for yourself, if any here were gifted to you?"

Fixing me with an insolent look, he wanted to know, "Why? Will you give it to me?"

'No, I'm going to take it myself,' I nearly said, but bit my lip. "A different question, then: Which horse would you choose for someone who'd not done much riding, but must go on a long and perilous journey all the same?"

He tried to size me up while retaining his insouciant expression. "Where are you going?"

I bit back a sarcastic reply. "Mundberg."

"Oh, aye." Éolas cocked an eyebrow at me, turned on his heel, and trotted down the row of stalls, leaving me to trail in his wake. Stopping in front of a box near the 'back door', he blocked my view of the occupant with his back. "I've a question for you, my lady."

Annoyed, I gritted my teeth. "My name is Firiel. Use it." I still could not see past him.

"Firel, then. Will you marry me?"

I took a step backwards. "What?"

"Will you marry me?" he repeated. He did not seem crazed, and even proceeded to explain his proposition in a most businesslike tone of voice. "You've no dowry, and I've no bride-price. You can't ride, so why should you care if I can't, either? I'm strong, and I'm not ill-favored."

I stared at him, Éowyn's words about love coming after marriage, if at all flashing through my head. "And you've the loveliest hair," he breathed, reaching out to touch it. "Like a chestnut's flank."

Too freaked out to be flattered, I backed up until I could back no more with the stall door behind me. "Éolas," I began, trying to keep my voice steady, "my heart is given."

"Ah, but he's dead." As if that solved everything.

I could have slapped him. "That has nothing to do with it." Taking a deep breath, I said, "I'll thank you to find me a horse and teach me how to ride it."

His eyes went leaden before he turned to open the door behind him. "This is Simbelmynë. Her sire was Shadowfax the Great, and her dam had Mearas blood as well. She'll understand what you tell her, and not jolt your leg, even at a gallop."

A fine-boned golden head poked out at me, limpid brown eyes blinking inquisitively. I barely registered Éolas' telling me to blow in her nose so she'd get my scent. I was moving toward her, entranced. Offering my left hand for her to sniff, I reached up to rub her head with my right. It was love at first sight.

Éolas looped a bridle around her neck, handing the rope to me. "Lead her out." I followed him out into a paddock, Simbelmynë trailing behind me.

Once outside, I scarcely noticed the biting wind. Éolas knelt, and I was afraid he'd try to propose again, but he only cupped his hand to boost me onto the mare's back, saying we'd begin without a saddle, to help me learn to move with the horse.

'Go to,' I thought, though Simbelmynë's back seemed very wide and very high once I sat astride it. As Éolas led her around the paddock, I held my arms straight out, as he'd told me, feeling very stupid but gradually learning to arrange my spine into that peculiar mix of slouch and perch that sends one's center of gravity into the pit of one's stomach. My head knew what to do, and it manhandled my body without reserve.

After an hour of this, Éolas helped me down, all business, and retrieved a saddle from the tack room, which he showed me how to fasten on. My hands remembered movements they'd never made before, and, with a prayer of thanks to Mme. Alatar, I adjusted the stirrups.

"Stand at the left side of the horse. Put your left hand on the pommel, with your right hand on the stirrup to steady it. Step in the stirrup with your left foot and swing over," Éolas directed, ignoring the fact that my legs now felt like wet spaghetti.

All the same, I watched and listened carefully, and then tried it. It worked, though I pulled in more inopportune directions than Simbelmynë might have liked. She was very patient with me, and allowed me to practice combinations of leaning and pulling and knee-prodding without offering the slightest protest.

Éolas matched the horse for patience, though I knew it must pain him to teach me what he could never do. I tried to think of something I could do to repay him, and watched the sun set.

He allowed me to dismount only when full night fell, and I slithered off Simbelmynë's back, head pounding with new knowledge. Hobbling back to the warmth of the stables, stiff and sore but deliriously happy, I wished for my staff. Lanterns glowed inside, suffusing the gloom with a dull, warm radiance.

I helped to wipe Simbelmynë down, and gave her fresh oats and water. When we finished, before he could offer to walk me back up to the Hall, or something equally impossible to accept and impolite to refuse, I stepped around the horse to face him.

"Thank you," I began, meeting his eyes. "My thanks for the lesson, and for your patience. I'll care for Simbelmynë, I promise."

His eyes said, 'You'd better, or else.' I pressed on. "You'll make some girl a very fine husband someday, but I'm not that girl. Here," I unfastened the beech-leaf brooch from my cloak and pressed it into his hand. "Now you have a bride-price." Leaning forward, I kissed his cheek, which took all of my nerve.

I turned and headed up the hill, trying to convince myself that I'd betrayed neither Boromir nor the Galadhrim.


	31. Farewell

Chapter Thirty

Farewell

Éowyn, in her all-knowing capacity as regent of Meduseld, had another steamy bath waiting for me. I soaked my legs and thighs back to normal, and then joined her in her chamber.

She was again seated before the fire, but now there was something decidedly odd about her manner. I could see she was tired: her eyes spoke of weary, boring hours, probably spent with accountants and clerks, but she could not see to settle to the greave she was repairing. As I entered, she jumped up, and then sat back down to offer only a cursory greeting.

Dinner waited for me again, so I divided my attention between the food and Éowyn's wrestling with the crumpled metal plates. "Must you work always?" I asked, as she struggled to return them to overlapping alignment.

She did not look up. "Yes. There is much to be done."

I bit my lip, feeling stupid and petty. "I only meant, are there not others to do such tasks?" I gestured at the armor. "Surely they do not leave repairs to the Lady of Rohan?"

She glanced up, eyes alight. "No, they do not. But the Forgemaster, like the Stablemaster, is short of hands, and he has done me an especial favor, so I offered my services." Rising, Éowyn crossed to the armoire. "He agreed, as did I, that a staff will not serve you on horseback, except you are a wizard, and suggested a spear. And while you might have one from our armory, I thought you would prefer your own weapon."

From the wardrobe she took Celetirmar. A glittering, leaf-shaped blade nearly a foot long had replaced one of its end-caps. Éowyn brought the weapon to me. For a moment my mouth would not work properly. She had given me a gift I had not asked for, and I did not know what to say. My staff, beautiful, defensive, gifted to me by Boromir and the Lady, had become a weapon of killing precision, and I was not sure I liked it.

But when Éowyn placed it in my hands, it was still mine. Somehow the Forgemaster had contrived to balance the blade, enabling me to continue to use the weapon as a staff, albeit with an extra, nasty surprise at one end. In addition, he'd used the excess mithril to plate the blade, making it, if possible, more lethal.

I though Boromir might have approved, since I defended his city—my city, now—as well as myself. He might have hefted the weapon, tried a few feints, and then returned it to me, saying, "It will serve you, Firiel, for dark days await." And maybe he would have said other things, but I could not bear to think of them.

The promise of tears constricted my throat and, determined not to cry in front of Éowyn, I crossed slowly to the far wall and leaned Celetirmar beside my pack. The I turned back, knowing I must thank her in some way, but neither my brains nor my vocal chords were up to speech just yet, so I went to her, taking in her carefully neutral expression, and put my arms around her in a silence embrace of thanks.

She stiffened, making me wonder how long it had been since anyone had hugged her. Had Éomer, before he rode to battle? Had her uncle, as he left Rohan in her charge? Somehow I didn't think so. As she relaxed, so did the lump in my throat, and when her arms encircled me in turn, I could tell her thank you.

Nodding against my shoulder, she said, "Gear and supplies we have backed in your saddlebags, and I have commissioned copies of maps showing the way to Mundberg that you may take. Have you chosen a mount?"

I pulled away, the better to gauge her reaction. "I have. And such a horse! Simbelmynë is her name."

Éowyn's expression solidified. "Gandalf taught you well. He has taken the first horse in Rohan, and you have chosen the second. She will serve you. I trained her myself."

I was going to strangle Éolas when I saw him next. How dare he? "Oh. It was not my intention to take your horse, my lady. I will."

Éowyn shook her head. "No. If I ride, it will be to war, and I will take Windfola, my cousin's horse, who has been trained for battle. Simbelmynë you may have. She is swift, but no warhorse."

Relived enough to stifle a yawn, I thanked her again, pressing her hand. "I would ask the use of your bed for one night more, and take my leave in the morning." I gestured at her armor project. "You may continue to work if you wish. The light will not disturb me." Indeed, I did not think that even a full-scale assault on Edoras would keep me from sleeping that night.

But Éowyn put away the greaves and joined me in bed. We lay in companionable, drowsy silence while I wondered whether she was glad to see me go, or if she wished for company in leading the people to Dunharrow. Either way, there was not much I could do about it. I had sworn to go to Gondor, and that was that. I hoped she understood, but still. . . "Éowyn?" It was easier to use her name when I could not see her face.

She wasn't asleep, and said so. "Would you rather I stayed? Or," as a thought occurred to me, "do you want to come with me?"

After a moment, she answered. "It would please me to fight beside you, sword and spear together for Gondor and Rohan. And for glory and renown. But I must stay here, where I am needed, and you must go where you are needed."

The sadness in her voice nearly broke me, and I reached out for her hand. "My mother used to say that we do not find happiness by looking for it, but stumble across it on the path of duty. I pray you will find it so."

I don't know if she fought down tears in the darkness, or simply had nothing to say, but she did not answer. Had my statement been too trite for words? "Maybe you will find your battle on the road to Dunharrow," I said, trying a different tack. "Did you not say that it was a long and perilous journey?"

"So it is," she admitted. "Perhaps you are right. I know not."

Something Boromir had said of his brother popped into my head then: 'I know what he would do, and it is far from what he must do.' That described Éowyn, as well. Thinking this over, sad for a number of reasons, I fell asleep.

Éowyn shook me awake in the dark. "Come."

I pulled on a hodgepodge of Rohirric and Elvish garments, my copper under-tunic beneath a woolen one given me by Éowyn, all belted over trousers of silk-lined wool. The cloak of the Galadhrim, knotted to make up for the lack of brooch, and my boots completed the ensemble. I at least felt dressed to brave the frigid March winds.

Éowyn's maps showed that the most direct route from Edoras to Minas Tirith was the Great West Road, which ran southeast between the White Mountains and the Entwash. Three hundred and twenty-five miles of open road. I prayed Simbelmynë was swift enough to carry me away from any danger that might beset us. Éowyn had said as much over our hurried breakfast.

"Try to reach the cover of Firien Wood by nightfall," she said, pointing to it on the map with her knife. "There, Mering Stream marks the border of Gondor. Give Simbelmynë her head, and she will take you to it."

I nodded, my mouth full of bacon. She continued, "Anorien, that we call Sunlending, is a fertile land, and will be pleasant to ride through. Once you round Druadan Forest, Mundberg is a straight course due south."

Shoving the last of the toast into my mouth, I stood and folded the map away into an inner pocket. I nodded, she nodded, and we left the kitchens. Simbelmynë, saddled and waiting for me below the horse-head fountain, shining golden in the gray dawn, her saddlebags packed with food and my gear, nickered as we approached. I had thought to see Éolas there, but he was nowhere to be found.

No door-wardens hampered our progress down the stairs now, though I walked slowly and Éowyn's tread was heavy beside me. I knew that farewelling me could not be easy for her, so before I mounted, I turned back for a final hug. We clung to each other for a long moment, and I whispered an Elvish benediction that popped into my head, courtesy of Mme. Alatar.

"Farewell, gwâthel nîn," I finished. "Sister-in-arms."

Standing at arm's length, Éowyn placed her hand over her heart, and then over mine, speaking in lyrical Rohirric. "Our steel will shine together, and our paths will cross again. If not in this life, then I will find you in the Great Hunt, beside the Rider, for I will know your horse." She kissed me swiftly on both cheeks, and then moved to hold my stirrup, unshed tears making her eyes shine silver. Once on Simbelmynë's back, I did not turn around until I reached the foot of the hill.

I could still see her standing on the terrace, gown and hair streaming gold against the weathered wood of Meduseld. The mare beneath me whinnied in farewell, and I echoed her with a wave, which Éowyn returned. Urging Simbelmynë down the rutted dirt track that joined the Great Road after a mile, I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and stared ahead.

Boromir had said he always winded his horn before setting out on a journey. I had no horn, but I lifted my head to let rip from my throat something part scream, part howl, and part feral cry of triumph. It was a war cry, though, I did not know what part of my soul had seen fit to deliver it. It roused Simbelmynë, though, and we took into the dawn.


	32. Not Again

Chapter Thirty-One

Not Again

Around noon, I became aware that someone was following me. I had looked back and glimpsed a toss of mane in the cloud of dust that hung in the air steadily about a mile behind us. A warm knot of fear pooled in the pit of my stomach, and the tightening in my back made it hard to keep my seat.

Possibilities flashed through my head. Nazgul? Mithrandir had said they now rode winged steeds. Was this true of all, or had one made an exception for me? I could hardly see why. Could it be some errand rider, for our side or the Enemy's? I hefted my spear, gnawing curiosity replacing fear. There was only one way to find out.

Slowing Simbelmynë to a canter, then to a walk, I veered off into a sparse stand of scrubby trees, the only cover the plains offered. We did not have to wait long. Rider and mount crested a low hill, letting me see brown mane and blond hair. I relaxed a little; someone from Rohan.

Someone from Rohan indeed. Éolas son of Folcwine reined his mount to a halt in front of us, quite a feat considering he rode bareback. "I'm coming with you," he declared.

"You are not." I took in the rigid grip his poker-straight legs had on its poor horse, which had been given a run, pun aside, for his money, and shook my head. "Your mount will never keep pace with mine, and your leg cannot stand riding in that fashion for much longer."

"It will," he said, grimace betraying his bravado.

"Will not."

"It will!"

"Will-" I stopped myself, breathing hard through my nose to keep my temper. "No, Éolas. Go home."

His face twisted into something far scarier than a glare. "Home is a pile of ashes in the Eastfold, next to the graves of my mother and my father and my two sisters. Do you not ride to battle to avenge your lord? Why then will you not allow me to ride with you, to my own vengeance?"

I stared at him. "I do not seek vengeance. Lord Éomer and his men slaughtered the Orcs that slew Boromir and wounded me. I ride because I vowed to a dying man that I would go to his city."

He narrowed his eyes. "Boromir? You were wed to the Captain-General?"

"Yes." How had his fact managed to escape him? "I go to Gondor because I have no other home."

This took him aback for a minute, but he rallied as only an adolescent that thinks himself in love can. "Then I will go with you, to protect you."

I focused on the brooch of Lorien at his throat, squelching the urge to strangle him. Had Boromir felt this way when I first asked to accompany him? Well, I had gone, hadn't I? What would work on Éolas that Boromir had not tried? My mind raced, hitting upon a possible solution. Rising in the stirrups, I addressed him, "I, Firiel, Lady of the White Tower, do lay on you, Éolas, Folcwine's son, a task. Do you accept such?"

It worked. He thought I'd changed my mind, and mustered up the most courteous language in his vocabulary. "Binding myself to your will, I accept your task, and offer my body as surety."

There were many ways of interpreting that phrasing, but I let it stand, since I was running out of courtly ways to phrase such things. "Others there are in greater need of your protection than I, s go you back to Edoras and safeguard them as they journey to Dunharrow: women and old men and children, in memory of your remembered dead."

His face fell. I had expected this, and was not quite finished. Unsure how to swear an oath on a spear, I held it out between us. "And in memory of your service, I swear that all who fall under my blade shall be blood payment for the lives of your family, in the stead of their murderers." I kissed Celetirmar's blade.

The expression on his face vacillated between outrage and relief. Watching him, I slid the spear back into the cup Éowyn had helped me fix to the saddle, so as to have both hands free to hold the reins. I still might have to outride his mount.

Éolas' mouth finally settled, and he nodded. He seemed to remember something that caused him to begin rummaging about in his pocket. He finally produced the running-horse brooch, which he held out to me.

I took it for closer examination. The jewelry was even more intricate than I had noticed before. Gold outlined the white horses on the green enamel background and sparkled in the details of their manes and tails. The magnificent piece had obviously been in Éolas' family for generations. It was a marvel that it had escaped the marauding Orcs.

Éolas had drawn up his own reins, steeling himself for the return journey. I offered the brooch back to him. "You can't give me this."

He set his jaw, shaking his head. "I can, and I have. I'll not be in your debt. You've given me a bride-price; there's a dowry."

I opened my mouth to argue, and then shut it abruptly. "I will keep it, then, as a gift, an exchange between friends." I held out my hand to him, praying he would not attempt to kiss it.

He had the good grace not to, and let go after a firm shake. Saluting me, he turned his mount northwest. I was almost sad to see his back. Leaning down, I whispered Simbelmynë into a gallop, and she obliged me.

The sun sank into afternoon, and afternoon darkened into evening. The sun, sinking behind me, illumined Firien Wood as it loomed before me. The stars had just emerged into full glory as I reached its shelter.

Dismounting near a likely copse of trees, I led Simbelmynë well off the road and removed her halter and bridle to let her graze while I unbuckled her saddle and made camp. Tinder and flint I found in the saddlebags, along with provisions. 'Thank goodness for Éowyn,' I thought as I searched for dry twigs and branches. Fortunately, there were many to hand, and I set to work kindling a fire, a skill Boromir had drilled into my head by making me practice until I could light even wet wood, blindfolded.

When Simbelmynë had had her fill, she settled beside me, watching me roast potatoes and boil water for tea and washing. I kept the fire small, for safety, but it served my purposes. Sated, I settled back against the saddle, munching a honey cake I'd also found in my pack, listening to the night around me.

This night represented the first time I'd been completely on my own since I'd come to Middle earth. It was freeing, and also a little scary. For a moment, I wished for Éowyn's brisk presence or Aragorn's pipe smoke. Most of all, though, I wished for the warmth of Boromir's embrace and for his voice in my ear.

It occurred to me that, if I cried, no one would see my tears. So I cried. Alone in the woods of Firien, I cried.


	33. To Minas Tirith

Chapter Thirty-Two

To Minas Tirith

Somewhere in the middle of my snuffles, I fell asleep. Wrapped in my cloak, my head on Simbelmynë's saddle, right hand clutching my spear, left curled around Éolas' brooch, I slept. And that was how I awoke in the hour before dawn. Dew was in the air, and danger.

The mare sensed it too; she nuzzled against my hand, anxious to be off. Climbing stiffly to my feet, I strapped on the saddle and fastened the bridle by touch, blessing Mme. Alatar, whose knowledge walked me through every step. After settling the saddlebags and scattering the ashes of my fire, I mounted and set off.

The sun rose blazing before us as we left the cover of Firien Wood, but the feeling of dread had not left me. Éowyn's map said I was now passing through Anorien. The land of the Sun, it was beautiful country, but very open. Farmland offered no cover and little shelter.

I let Simbelmynë graze when we paused for lunch. Breakfast had been nonexistent, but I was not particularly hungry. I suppose I'd learned to eat less, on the River and running, or else my body was still working off the abundant food at Edoras. I ate anyway, making a sandwich of a bun and sliced meat, together with some cress from a stream, and then we were off again.

The last of my stiffness disappeared as I galloped through Gondor. I stopped trying to divide my attention between the lush landscape on my left and the majestic mountains on my right in favor of merely concentrating on the road as Simbelmynë's hooves ate it up. I planned to camp on the outskirts of Druadan Forest that night, and ride into Minas Tirith at noon on the morrow.

Éowyn had warned me against straying over the River into Ithilien, as not even a Meara would be safe crossing the thaw-swollen Anduin, but also because that part of Gondor was overrun by Sauron's minions, Orcs and treacherous Men. Boromir had said as much when he told me that the Rangers did not hold the place so much as merely scout it, and that had swayed my decision to strike for Minas Tirith first. Besides, I'd no idea where to even begin searching for Faramir, even in Ithilien, and Lord Denethor was sure to be at the White City.

My heart quivered at the thought of meeting my father-in-law. By Gondorian law, anyway. If Boromir had not exaggerated his father's powers of perception, he would know the truth of my story, but what he did with that truth-and me-was up to him. An oath I had sworn to Gondor, and so I'd be at the mercy of her Steward.

Or her king. What would I do when Aragorn arrived in Gondor, whether he pressed his claim to the throne or not? I did not know what I would say if forced to chose between my love's family and the man who'd comforted and healed me. Though, my feelings toward the Ranger had cooled significantly since his desertion of me at Edoras. I would cross that bridge, I thought, when it came. Now, my surroundings demanded all of my attention.

In the twilight, Druadan Forest looked much like Fangorn, and felt much the same: eerie age and old leaves. Glad that I had only to camp on its outskirts that night, and might travel through it by the light of day, I galloped Simbelmynë through the first patch of gnarled oaks, stopping on the other side, when the forest lurked only to my right.

Even after two days of hard riding, Simbelmynë seemed hardly winded. I, however, fell asleep as soon as I'd cared for her and scoffed down a bit of dinner.

The morning found me damp and grumpy. Strange dreams had haunted my sleep, leaving me bleary-eyed and haggard. Saddling up, I vowed to wash at the first stream I came to, and possibly change my clothes in preparation for my audience with the Steward.

Simbelmynë found me a stream, tiny and clear, so I scrubbed my face in the frigid water and shook my hair out. That the Elves had gifted me with spare clothing in Gondorian colors was not lost on me. Clad in black and silver, I wiped at my boots and donned the Elvish cloak once more, fastening it with Éolas' brooch. Feeling infinitely more presentable, I pulled my hood up and we set off again.

Galloping east, we rounded Druadan Forest, neither of us sorry to leave it behind. As we struck south, I recognized landmarks Boromir had described to me whenever he spoke of his city. The beacon of Amon Dîn set atop a foothill, not lit yet but clearly manned, and a little farther on, the Grey Wood. Past that loomed Mount Mindolluin. I felt like I had come home. Standing in the stirrups, I strained to see Minas Tirith, but the mountain blocked my view.

It did not matter. Much. I had come to the Rammas Echor, and now set about looking for a postern gate in the high patchwork of wood and stone. After a bit of riding, I found one, guided to it by the pop of guttering torches. Dismounting, I knocked, and then craned my neck upwards. "Halloo the wall!" I had to force my tongue around the Westron.

"Halloo the road!" came a bass voice down. "What do you here?"

"I ride from Rohan to bring my Lord Steward news of his son." I'd decided that this was the best introduction, but had a few tricks up my sleeve if it didn't work.

The tactic at least earned me a personal response. The ironclad door creaked open, loosing three burly guardsmen in black livery I had to hold Simbelmynë still as they surrounded us. "Do you bring news of the Lord Faramir?" the tallest wanted to know.

"I bring news of the Lord Boromir, fallen in battle not a fortnight hence. More I will say only to the my Lord Steward." Setting my jaw, I stared him down.

He looked me over. "From Rohan you have come? So your horse bears witness, but your garments have an Elvish cast to them. Where lies your allegiance?"

"With Gondor, and so I swore to her Captain-General." Trying to contain my frustration, I continued, "And when I did, he told to me the passwords of the Seven Gates, that I might enter the White City." I began to recite them, hearing Boromir's warm voice drill the phrases into my head.

As the looks of wonder on the guards' faces grew, I could barely contain a triumphant grin. "Tiding I have for the Steward. May I pass?"

They bowed me in, escorting us through the Fields of the Pelennor, which were rich but sparsely populated for all their verdant growth. As we rounded the mountain, I glimpsed the city, finally. The sight made me want to boot Simbelmynë into a run and leave my vanguard behind, simply to reach the Great Gate.

No matter how many times Boromir had described the White City to me, and however poetic the terms, I'd always pictured it as a seven-layered birthday cake shoved up against a mountain, with the Tower of Ecthelion the crowning candle. This was no cake.

Shining opalescent in the noon-high sun, the Guarded City defied any enemy with sheer beauty and the promise of complete impenetrability. Banners snapped from every battlement, with the highest atop the Tower's spire. To have Boromir beside me at this moment, and to ride home triumphantly as Lord and Lady. . . it did not bear thinking. I passed through the gates alone, save for my escorts.

With the iron doors behind us, Simbelmynë pranced up the long road that hatched back and forth around the city. For my part, I drunk in sites I had waited so long to see, slightly disappointed. The lofty houses were fine, beautifully constructed and ornamented, but I could tell that many had fallen into disuse. What would Minas Tirith look like, thriving and filled with laughter and music? I vowed to see it so, one day, for Boromir.

Higher and higher, through the mountain, each level more silent than the last, though it was nearly noon. My guards allowed me to give the passwords at each gate, until we reached the seventh. As we emerged from the shadow of the mountain passage, the sun shone again on us, though somewhat dampened by my temper at having to give Simbelmynë over to an ostler. She did not want to go, but I knew that horses weren't allowed in the Citadel, so I whispered in her ear, and she trotted off reluctantly.

Not even Boromir's description had prepared me for the majesty of the Citadel-and its guards. Their winged helmets shone to match my blade, as did their silver-embroidered livery. They remained motionless as we traversed the courtyard. The only sound came from the burbling fountain the center of the greensward. I as trying to gather my scattered thought when I caught sight of what stood beside the fountain.

The White Tree. My guards nearly ran into me when I stopped still, wondering what sort of genuflection would be appropriate. Settling for a simple salute, I caught my escorts up, an waited to gain admittance to the great hall that stood at the base of Ecthelion's tower. Our steps echoed down a long corridor, and I once more tried to collect my scattered thoughts for the impending audience.

What had endeared me to Boromir, and him to me, might or might not work with his father. Still, I had no desire to play things by ear with the Steward. Daughter-in-law I might be, but I was still his vassal. A word out of place, and he'd have me in the dungeons- or on the front lines.

Invisible hands opened the great doors, and I strode into the hall. It was impossible to imagine a place less like Meduseld. Carven pillars of black marble rose to the vaulted ceilings, where high windows lit dull golden tracery. Between each pillar stood a somber statue of a long-dead king, like miniature Argonaths. I could have named many of them, if I'd had the desire to, but my attention was on the statuesque, slumped figure in the black chair at the royal dais' foot.

The man bent forward over something folded in his sable robe, salt-and-pepper locks nearly obscuring a craggy profile. I spared a glance behind me for my guards, but they had disappeared, leaving me alone with the Steward.


	34. An Audience with Lord Denethor

Chapter Thirty-Three

An Audience with Lord Denethor

When my feet had carried me perhaps ten feet from his chair, I mustered my voice. "Hail Denethor, Lord and Steward of Gondor!" My voice cracked, but I hid my blush by bending my head as I knelt.

He did not answer immediately, but when he did, his voice was heavy with grief and despair. "I am told you bring me news of my son."

Not sure whether it was a request or simply a statement, I said only "That is so, my lord," aware that answering unasked questions was tantamount to speaking before being spoken to: a no-no for all good esquires.

"Then do you come to explain this?" Sable rustled, and I looked up as he lifted from his lap the Horn of Gondor, split, as I had last seen it, in two halves. Weary eyes met mine, demanding an explanation.

I composed myself to give one. "In some part, my lord. I stood beside your son on Amon Hen, where he fell, and where Orcish arrows split the horn as they took his life."

"How is it that he is fallen while you stand whole before me?" Denethor leaned forward, brows beetling in suspicion. "What were you to my son, that he should protect you thus?"

I thought I'd explode if I had to explain this to one more person. "His esquire, my lord, and then. . .we were handfasted." The Steward snorted, but his frosty eyes held no disbelief. I pressed doggedly on. "Would you have the tale from the beginning, lord?"

"I would. Speak and be not silent."

Wonderful, I thought, taking a deep breath and wondering how to tell this story in summary without mentioning either the Ring, which might affect the father like it had the son, or Aragorn, whose appearance would cause enough upheaval without my warning Minas Tirith in advance. I'd just have give the Steward a lot of what he'd asked for: Boromir details. With a brief prayer that my tears would remain unshed, I began.

"The Fellowship numbered nine when it set out from Imladris, where Boromir's riddle had led him. Their leader, Mithrandir, they lost in Moria, for they took the path under the mountain rather than the Gap of Rohan and the road to Minas Tirith, as Boromir suggested. Now numbering eight, the Fellowship rested for a time in the Golden Wood of Lorien, where I joined them. A ward of the Lady of the Wood, she sent me with the company to make their number nine once more. But in truth, my lord, I accompanied them to stay at your son's side, for he had taken me as esquire."

I told about our journey up the Great River, dredging up memories of Boromir's words and actions from where I'd buried them. As I lifted my eyes to meet the Steward's, I founded detail pouring from my mouth, as though the cold gaze compelled me to tell all. He stopped me twice to clarify events, which I did, apologizing all over myself.

Voice steady but chin wobbling, I ended my tale at Amon Hen, explaining Boromir's last words and the oath I had sworn. "I have ridden in haste from the seat of Théoden King of Rohan to fulfill my oath. In any way you see fit, lord, I would serve Gondor." I bent my head again, hoping he could see Celetirmar and believe I knew how to use it.

That was not the issue the Steward chose to address next, however. I felt his gaze boring through my forehead as I tried not to wobble on my knees. "So. Daughter. Do you bear my son's heir?"

My mouth worked silently for a moment, and then I shut it abruptly, after squeaking out "We were handfasted only, my lord!"

Denethor shrugged. "My Council would uphold it a binding marriage. No grandson of mine will carry the stigma of illegitimacy."

Even as I remembered what Aragorn had said outside Edoras about Gondorian law, I could not believe I was being asked this. "There was only love between Boromir and me, my lord," I protested, determined to be polite.

"That is often all that's needed." He fixed wolf-gray eyes on my midsection, as if to discern whether a child grew within.

Gritting my teeth, I tamped my outrage down. "No, my lord. I am a maiden still."

"Ah." I could not tell if the answer pleased him or not, but I rather thought he had wanted a grandson. Not much could be done about it now.

The Steward rose, and I thought I heard the metallic rustle of mail, but could see nothing under his voluminous robes of state. He raised me to my feet with a hand craggy with age but still calloused from the sword. "Walk with me."

Slightly puzzled, I took his arm and matched his measured, though not feeble, step. His presence filled the entirety of my awareness, so that I scarcely noticed our leaving the great hall, and did not even protest when he bade me hand Celetirmar over to the guard, saying it would be put in a guest chamber with the rest of my things. My resentment had not disappeared, but I realized that the Steward reminded me of Aragorn, when Boromir's presence was absent and I could notice the Ranger's aura. Denethor even looked a bit like him, though I was careful not to point the resemblance out.

He took me to the battlements, to the very edge of the Citadel. The sheer drop of the view from the embrasure stole my attention completely from the man at my side, as he had known it would.

The fields of the Pelennor lay before me, traversed by tiny figures and wagon leaving the City in various directions. I squinted north to the River and Osgiliath, but could not make much out, even though the climbing sun made inroads on the morning's fog. I looked out to Mordor, into the growing shadow and darkness, sending up a silent prayer for Frodo and Sam, somewhere in that bleak land. Saddened, I let my eyes plummet to the Gates, seven hundred feet below, wonder if Boromir had made a habit of standing here to survey the promise of his land.

Turning to the Steward, I opened my mouth to ask this, only to have the words die in my throat as I looked back toward the Black Land and saw what my companion's eyes were fixed upon.

A phalanx of five winged figures swooped and banked above a collection of hills I knew to be the Emyn Arnen. "They are come," the Steward muttered again and again, hands convulsing on the stone ledge.

In the middle of my terror, I yet remembered Mithrandir's words. "No, my lord," I said, catching at his sleeve. "They will not cross the River!"

I noticed black-clad figures moving frenetically on the levels below us. The soldiery of Gondor had noted the Nazgul as well. The Steward pulled away from me. Transfixed, we watched the beasts wheel and bank, but not stray from Anduin's eastern shore. Finally, with a flap of the bat-like wings, they turned back to Mordor

Denethor straightened slowly, fingers unclenching. "So they remain at bay." He turned to me, evaluating, appraising, eyes calculating. "An oath you have sworn, and to that oath I shall hold you. As you were Boromir's esquire, so you shall be mine."

I bowed to hide my dismay. "As you wish, my lord."

The Steward looked me up and down once more. "Attend me at the evening meal. In the meantime, you will be shone where you may rest from your journey and find more. . .suitable livery."

I smelled a skirt, but bowed again and offered my thanks anyway. Trailing the Steward back inside, I once again thought I noticed the clink of chain mail, but dismissed it. Perhaps one of the guards had shifted position. Once in the great hall, Denethor stooped to ring a small silver gong beside his chair. Servants appeared from either side of the doors, and he ordered them to show me to my room and provide me with the midday meal, as well as garb suitable for the Seward's esquire.

One of the dower men who'd stepped forward at his lord's call led me across the Fountain-sward and down white-paved, white-walled streets to what I supposed must be a guesthouse, standing by the Citadel's northeast wall. Though the ground floor appeared unoccupied, the lackey led me to a chamber at the top of a set of spiral stair, and left me.

Relived to see that both my saddlebags and Celetirmar had made it to the room before me and appeared unharmed, I kicked off my boots and went to wash in the porcelain basin provided. Thinking that I'd have to see about a more thorough bath later, I unbuttoned my over-tunic and crossed to a window. The view behind the shutters was a vista of the River, past the Pelennor and not quite to Mordor. I still had not tired of the city's view. 'My city.'

Inside, the surroundings were bleaker. The room tried to be Elvish, but fell short, mired in the heavy-handed furnishings of Men. Still, the table and single chair were well made, and the bed tucked into the alcove looked soft and inviting. I had just sprawled on it to prove this true when I remembered my transportation and longsuffering companion. Tugging my boots back on, I went to check on Simbelmynë.


	35. Acceptance

Chapter Thirty-Four

Acceptance

Once in the street, I looked around, unsure where the stables might be, but certain they were below me. I marched down the tunnel to the sixth level, and was halfway into the descent before I realized I'd caught up Celetirmar as I went out. In the street, I once again looked about for a signpost saying "Stables, This Way." There wasn't one forthcoming.

What was coming, however, was a tall figure, striding past me down the street in the livery of the Guard. Relieved, I hailed him. As he crossed to where I stood, he squinted at my clothes and at my hair, blowing free, and then his face cleared. "My lady!" He offered me a combination bow and salute.

Rolling my eyes and brushing hair from my face, I stuck out an insistent hand. "News flies fast in the White City, but not quite fast enough. Lady I am no longer; esquire to my Lord Steward is a higher honor still."

He clasped my forearm, nodding. "I am called Dorion of Lossarnach. My lord averred he would not take another esquire." It was a suitably neutral statement, inviting a range of answers.

I dissembled, remembering Simbelmynë. "I do not claim to know his mind. Indeed, I scarcely know his city. I am in search of the stables even now."

As it turned out, I had been heading in the right direction, but Dorion offered to guide me, and I accepted. The stables stood hard by the southeast side of the sixth level. Only three others shared the building, which was tiny by Rohirric standards, with Simbelmynë. Dorion explained that only a few horses, chosen for their speed, were kept in the city.

"But this beauty could outpace them all," he finished, giving Simbelmynë a bit of bread from his pocket as I checked that both water trough and manger were full.

Satisfied, I offered her a few of few of my own caresses. "Yes, she could,' I agreed, deciding along with the mare that Dorion was all right. "She has carried me more than a hundred leagues in less than three days, and I will vouch for her in any race, against any steed."

The guardsman whistled long and low. "I am no judge of horseflesh, but that truly is a feat. Annaliss would know whether it sets a precedent or not. My sister," he explained, "is an errand rider. At present she is not in the city, but has ridden to Dol Amroth with a message for the Prince, my lord's kinsman."

I grinned. "I should like to met your sister, when she returns."

The young man looked down, chewing his bottom lip as if wondering how, or whether, he should say something. "I do not know," he began, sounding slightly strangled, "whether or not you have seen the wagons leaving the city, but, in any case, those who cannot fight are being sent out of Minas Tirith, which include most of the women, excepting those in the Guard or the matrons and drudges in the Houses of Healing."

I stared at him, wondering what he was trying to tell me. Had I missed something?

Dorion ducked his head. "You look none of those, my lady, with your hair down and in those Elvish clothes. You look- well, you make a man want to do things he probably shouldn't- that you wouldn't like. I can vouch for myself, of course, and my company. They're all good lads, but, well, the other soldiers. . ."he trailed off, reddening.

Oh. 'Oh.' Disregarding my horsy hands, I rolled up my hair and stuffed it into the back of my tunic, which I finished buttoning up and then tugged down over my hips. "Is that better?"

"A bit," he allowed.

I gritted my teeth. "My lord ordered suitable livery be brought to me. I shall wear that in the future."

He nodded and I nodded, and an awkward silence ensued, into which my stomach grumbled. Dorion lit up like a light bulb. "If you were to go and change, my lady, we'd be pleased to have you take midday with us. My company, I mean. The First Company. Lord Boromir's company."

I swallowed hard. Could I get through a meal with Boromir's men, warriors he'd trained and fought beside, who probably knew him better than I did? "I- I would like that. But you must none of you treat me as the Captain-General's lady. All of us serve Gondor in equal capacity."

Dorion shrugged. "Oh, aye."

That settled, he followed me back to my room, waiting downstairs while I trotted up to change. Livery had been left for me, and I examined it. There was a linen shirt to go under a mail one, with a tunic over all of it, black with silver embroidery of the White Tree. The trousers provided were fuller than my leggings, which I thought Dorion would approve of. I put everything on carefully, trying not to think of Boromir as I did so.

I had come to his city to aid his people, but this had never crossed my mind: camaraderie with the men and women who had served under and loved my lord. Father and brother I had expected, but I had to idea how to pass this test. But worrying would help nothing, so I put it out of my head as best I could.

Parting my hair, I braided it into two plaits, and then wound these around my head in battle-braids, as Éowyn had shown me. I stared for a long time at the winged helmet that lay with my uniform, and when I tried it on, it fit snugly over my hair. My reflection in the mirror did not look right, though, and the weight of steel made my neck ache, so I left the headpiece on the table. After shoving my feet back in my boots and tucking my trouser cuffs in, I grabbed Celetirmar and hurried to meet Dorion.

His face lit up. "You look city-born, my lady."

I took this as a sign of approval and fell into step beside him. Apparently, it was entirely appropriate to carry one's weaponry to meals. I also discovered that soldiers in Gondor left their helmets off unless on duty or under attack. Grinning to myself, I followed my guide down to the fifth level and the barracks of the First Company.

Three long buildings made of weathered white stone curved around the wall from the mountain to the north side of the gate. Dorion lead me into the second. Noise surrounded us, and the smell of food. As I looked around, my stomach turned over with hunger. Our entrance caused no noticeable lull in conversation, but a moment later servants bore in platters of food, and then everyone did hush.

Dorion found us a seat at one long trestle table, but our backsides had barely touched the benches before the assembly rose as one. Dorion pulled me up beside him. 'Ah,' I thought, 'the Standing Silence.' Boromir had explained this custom, the remembrance of Numenor, and so I oriented myself west with everyone else.

After a moment, everyone seated himself and began to pass around platters of bread and meat and pitchers of beer and wine. I forked food onto my pewter plate, splashing drink into my goblet. Dorion was engaged in conversation with someone on his left, so I put my head down and tried to eat.

My hands shook- my whole body shook at being surrounded by so many people, so many black-and-sliver clad figures laughing, talking, and jostling each other. I flinched as someone slid up against me on the bench, jerking my head up to see a woman perhaps ten years my senior. Her hair was pinned up much like mine, and a long scar disappeared into the collar of her uniform. She offered me her knife to cut my meat, so I took it, making an effort to steady my hands.

"Morwen is my name. I saw you ride in. What news to you bring?" She split my bread roll with me, beginning to eat while I struggled for an answer.

It was not fair, not fair of her to make me speak of him in this way. 'I will not cry,' I told myself. 'I will not cry. I will tell them what they wish to know.' "My lord Boromir fell thirteen days ago, above the Falls of Rauros. I was with him. He fought bravely and with honor against many foes, to protect myself and two others. Because of his death, we live. Many songs are made even now of his victorious death, and more still shall be made of the first son of Gondor."

I realized my voice had grown louder as I went on. The hall had fallen silent around me, and everyone was looking at me. I lifted my chin, unable to stop the torrent of words that poured from my unwilling mouth, like and yet unlike what I had told the Steward. "As life left him, I swore an oath: to seek his city and see her saved. Half I have fulfilled. In the rest I would ask your aid, that I might stand beside you against the darkness that would cover all. For Boromir." My hand found my glass, and raised it.

The hall rang with the shouted toast. "For Boromir!"

Morwen pressed my hand, and Dorion threw an arm about my shoulder, raising his own cup with his free hand. "Firiel, Lady of the White Tower!"

Not quick enough, I reached to cover his mouth, hissing something along the lines of "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

But the company had picked up the toast, so I gritted my teeth in a smile, vowing to put something slimy in Dorion's bed at the first opportunity. But even as I did, a hard knot uncoiled in my stomach. The First Company had toasted me as Boromir's lady and maybe, just maybe, I had been accepted.


	36. Trial and Error

Chapter Thirty-Five

Trial and Error

Everyone seemed to take the hint, and quieted down after that, getting back to the business of eating and then returning to duty. I ate more than I really wanted, sure that dinner would involve much standing behind the Steward's chair and little eating on my part.

Finished with the meal, everyone dispersed to his different stations. Dorion escaped my wrath by saying that he had duty in the Citadel and decamping, leaving me with Morwen. I felt her eyes on me as I retrieved Celetirmar from behind my seat, and when I turned back, two more figures had joined her, a man and a woman. 'No,' I thought, looking closer, 'two women.' Here stood the only three females I had noticed in the hall.

Morwen introduced them casually, flicking her hand at one, then the other. Ortaine's jet hair threatened to escape its coronet. Lithe and strong, she looked to be much of an age with me, though I hoped my eyes would never grow that wary and hard. I had originally taken Silmarien for male, and this seemed to be the image she wished to project, both with her stance and with the slightly curling black hair shorn at her shoulders. The trio brought Boromir's words to mind: 'Some go openly to war, but it is not required, and they are not many. And some cut their hair and go in secret, in the name of husbands or fathers or brothers. Or sons.'

I nodded affably as both newcomers sized me up. "Good speech," said Silmarien.

"Nice and short," said Ortaine.

"You sounded very like him. Did he teach you to speak like that?" Morwen wanted to know.

I shrugged, choosing my words carefully. "That is hard to say. He taught without knowing that he did so, sometimes without even my knowing." All three women looked at me with eyes half hungry and half envious. It was, I realized, impossible to be under Boromir's command for any length of time without falling in love with him. I had probably fulfilled each woman's fantasy, and none of them liked it, since I was, to quote the man in question: 'a stubborn, dowerless girl in men's dress.' Just like them. Yikes.

My words seemed to mollify them somewhat. I hedged my bets by continuing, "The Lord Steward does not require me at present. Is there some duty I might assist you with? I would not sit idle."

Silmarien's cool green gaze met mine. "No, you are not one to sit idle, I think. Very well." She tapped her lip with a forefinger, glancing at Morwen, who spoke for both.

"We've not enough men even for watch-and-watch on the second level ramparts. I know for a fact that Firion and Ancir have not slept these two days."

Silmarien looked to me. "You and I shall relieve them." Her intonation made the statement a question. I nodded. "Morwen is captain of the wall-top," she explained, jabbing the 'Captain' with a friendly elbow.

"Wait." The three of us turned to Ortaine. She jerked her head at Celetirmar. "You speak as a soldier of Gondor, I would see if you can fight as one."

I swallowed hard. Given a choice between wall patrol and a sparring match against this brittle woman, I would take the wall hands down. But she had thrown down a challenge, and I knew that even the most oblique refusal would lose me face in the eyes of Gondor's soldiery. I searched desperately for a compromise, wondering what Boromir would do.

With a deep breath, I took control of the situation. "What is the time, perhaps an hour after noon?" Morwen answered with a noncommittal nod. "How long do you walk the walls, in one watch?" I asked Silmarien.

She shrugged. "I will begin now and walk until night falls, sup, and then walk until dawn, my lady."

The 'my lady' did not please me, and neither did the hours. I turned to Ortaine. "How many hours have you in which we may spar?" Her reply of 'two hours' was nonchalant and noticeably title-less.

I thought for a moment before nodding at her. "So. We shall have a bout, and then-" I looked to Silmarien. "-I shall find you on the wall. This evening I must go and wait upon my lord Steward, for he has taken me as esquire."

The three women nodded as one, and I ducked my head, trying to shake the feeling that they were acquiescing to my orders. Morwen and Silmarien took themselves off, leaving me with a tense, half-defiant Ortaine. Smiling encouragingly, I motioned toward the doors. "Lead on. I do not know the way."

A smirk of triumph, and she strode out, catching up her own spear on the way. I examined the weapon as we made our way down to the practice yards. It looked heavier than my own, and not as well made, but the blade was sharp, though, which was what mattered.

I tried to plan my approach to this mock duel I'd gotten myself into. Should I let her win, or would she accept me only if I mastered her? Could I win, or even move the match to a draw? Her blade caught the sun, throwing the light back into my eyes. Grimacing, I wondered if a 'friendly' practice match was even wise with such lethal weapons. I had no wish to be carried bleeding before Lord Denethor to explain how I'd gotten that way, nor to give him news that I'd killed or maimed one of his soldiers. I chewed my lip, thinking.

The practice yards occupied much of the third level's northern side; equipment sheds alternated with sawdust- or sand-covered areas. When Ortaine picked one of the latter out, I decided to try giving the orders a bit longer. I let my eyes drift from her weapon to my own, and then whistled quietly. "What shall I say to your commander if I do you an injury, and what report will you make to my lord Steward if you slay me?" I widened my eyes at her. "I am not careful in my blows, striking first and considering the angle of my blade later. I would spar with you, but let us use practice staves, that a misplaced blow may only bruise and not maim. What say you to that?"

Ortaine stared at me, nonplussed. "I say that it is my business to worry where your blows fall, and should you wound me, the hurt is mine to explain, not yours. If you land a blow, my lady," she sneered, "I will deserve the result."

'So much for practice staves.' She wished to test my mettle as well as my skill by treating this as a duel. 'Go to,' I thought grimly, wishing I were neither so tired nor so full. As the challenged party, though, I had a few rights. "First blood only," I specified, as Ortaine back away, spear held ready.

She nodded, face expressionless, before charging to meet me in a press of flesh and metal. I led with the point of my spear, aiming diagonally across her body, aware of the length at my disposal, but also of her lethally gleaming blade.

Busy beating the advance away with her own weapon, she did not have time to counterattack. I drove Celetirmar's haft behind her in an attempt to knock her off balance with a blow to the back of her legs. I did not work exactly as I had planned.

She spun her spear to push away my strike, using the momentum to bash me in the side of the head with her spear butt. I staggered backward as my vision exploded.

Ortaine laughed. Battle-fire lit her eyes, chilling me as I regained my balance. This was not a training exercise to her, not even a challenge. It was a battle, and I did not even know what we fought over.

She let me know soon enough. I brought my spear down to guard my flank an instant before her blade impacted, catching and forcing it back up. As I darted back in, meaning to slip a blow in under her guard, she struck at my arm, nearly shaking the spear from my hand. I did not drop it though.

"He taught you well," she scoffed, "but he taught me, too. And he taught me first."

'Was that what this was all about?' I thought, fighting for traction in the sawdust. 'Did she mean to win from me a dead man's affection?' I nearly laughed, the proposition was so absurd.

Sidestepping, I let her blow pass close to my left leg but not actually impact. I could tell she had stopped testing me and that she fought in earnest now, but anger and frustration had made her swings wilder, and hair had wisped free from her braid to straggle in her eyes. I put the thought of letting her win out of my head. Gondor needed me whole.

'First blood,' I told myself. 'First blood will end this. So I must take first blood.' I was stronger, if not faster, and I had not lost my cool. Flinging thoughts of defense to the wind, I attacked.

Three strikes she parried, but the fourth broke under her guard. Reversing the haft to lead with my blade, I lunged and let Celetirmar's mithril slice through the fabric of her trousers to kiss her calf. The metal came away edged with red. I backed off, smiling grimly.

It was a victory, but I did not feel victorious, only a profound sense of relief. Not even Boromir's 'Well done, Firiel,' in my head could stir me to triumph. I stood down, leaning heavily on Celetirmar.

Ortaine stared from me to her leg and back again, her expression a blur of disbelief and despair. "So he returned your love, is that it? Is that why he taught you better?"

I shook my head. "Boromir taught me to use a staff only, and that reluctantly. I do not think he would have slighted you."

"What would you know?" she spat, dashing sweat from her eyes.

"I knew him, and that was not his nature" It was the only thing I could think of to say, and I hoped it would not inflame her more.

"Oh, you knew him? How long did you know him, my lady? A month? Two? You did not grow up hearing his name shouted in the streets. He did not pick you out for his company, the First Company. You did not guard his back in battle; you let him die!"

I could feel my calm slipping away as I fought the urge to strangle her or spit her on Celetirmar. A few deep breaths helped to suppress the violent urges, but I still had no answer for her.

Tendrils of uncertainty niggled at my mind, curling tighter and tighter, constricting my confidence. She was wrong, wasn't she? Boromir had chosen me for his esquire, and I had not let him die. Unconscious at the time, I had not had anything to do with his dying.

Like a gift from heaven, a line from my mother's last letter entered my head with astonishing clarity, and I found myself speaking it aloud. "People don't lose their lives. Their lives are taken from them, or else they lay them down themselves."

Ortaine's turned nearly feral. "And was my lord's life taken from him, or did he lay it down?"

"He laid it down." 'For redemption, and for the safety of two halflings, and for his city: he laid it down. And for me,' I thought. 'For all these he laid it down.'

A kind of serenity washed over me. I wondered that I had not known this before, for now the knowledge seemed as much a part of me as my mother's love, or Boromir's. Dipping my head at Ortaine, I turned on my heel and walked away.


	37. Explanations and Making Music

Chapter Thirty-Six

Explanations and Making Music

I found my way down to the second level, remembering the proper password at the gate only with the warden's prompting. After managing this, I began to stroll parallel to the battlements, hoping I would not have to search the entire wall before I found Silmarien. I passed three pairs of guards, spaced perhaps five hundred feet apart, before I spotted a stocky figure walking alone.

As I fell in step beside her, she offered a curt nod of greeting. "How went your bout?"

I debated a moment before deciding that she would appreciate a blunt answer. "Murderously. But I took first blood."

"Truly?" Silmarien turned to me, respect lighting her eyes.

I nodded, still feeling indifferent. "Though Ortaine's tongue is sharper than her spear."

This drew a short laugh, and then her face sank into seriousness. "She spoke to you of Lord Boromir, then?"

I nodded again and did not speak, pretending to concentrate on imitating her policeman's walk, a proceeding step that I knew would allow me to keep going for hours on end.

"You must not blame her," Silmarien said after a moment. "In a time when all lives are hard, hers has been harder than most." Her voice was guff, but whether because of the subject matter or because she was used to speaking in a lower range, I did not know.

"Hard? She is one of three women in the First Company of the Guard." I stared, trying to conceal my skepticism and not succeeding.

"Four, Firiel. One of four." I opened my mouth to ask who the fourth woman was, and then her sea-green gaze met mine. I grinned in spite of Ortaine and her accusations. One of four. . . .

Silmarien, with what I had come to realize was characteristic directness, picked up the conversation where we had left off. "Will you believe me when I say that she has had a hard time of it even in First Company, or must I tell you the tale?"

"I think you must tell me the tale." If I could not explain myself to Ortaine, I would at least have someone explain her to me.

Silmarien waited until we were alone on a stretch of wall to begin. "What I tell you in confidence is to be kept in confidence."

I nodded, pleased that she'd dropped my title and felt comfortable giving me orders. "Understood."

An odd look and a deep breath, and she began. "She was perhaps fifteen, a small, skinny thing with flying black hair, when she began to hang about the barracks, running errands and making a nuisance out of herself pretending to be an esquire. I think the men were glad of her services, though, for she served with all her heart- and body." Silmarien cut her eyes at me to make sure I'd taken her meaning. I had.

"She has never told be where in the City she hailed from, but it is my guess that she escaped or was put out from one of the bawdy-houses on the fourth circle." Again the sidelong glance, I suppose to see if she'd shocked me yet.

I lifted my eyebrows at her, and she resumed her narrative. "In any case, she worked her way up to the First Company through liaisons with various division commanders. By this time she had found herself a uniform, and made some pretense of training with the men, but she had not given up her dreams of being a Lord's wife, or at least mistress. Lord Boromir would have none of her favors, though, and ignored her except to correct her stance or grip on a weapon.

"So she sought to gain his attention through prowess in arms, and in this she succeeded, though he still did not look on her with anything but honest pride. When he set off on his quest, she begged to accompany him, but he would not have her, and little wonder, for he refused even Morwen, who was his adjutant."

Morwen had been Boromir's second-in-command? I stored this information away for future reference, meaning to ask her later.

"So you must not think too harshly of Ortaine," Silmarien concluded. "She loved my lord Boromir as much as it is in her heart to love."

For almost a mile I digested this tale, looking up at the City and down at the Fields and everywhere except at Silmarien. I could forgive Ortaine, with this new context, but I would forget neither her angry words nor her laughter.

We reversed our perambulation around the ramparts, and I suppose I had remained silent for so long that Silmarien felt she needed to attempt to mollify me further. "I will speak to her, my lady, if you truly cannot bear her words. I am her senior in rank and age: she will apologize if I order her."

Shaking my head, I replied, "I would not have that. But I would know if other women in the City feel toward me as she does for, for-" My throat closed up. The words would not come. I struggled against my body's rebellion in vain, finally giving up.

Silmarien put a hand on my shoulder, a gesture that she must have meant to comfort me, but one that I could see that she was not comfortable making. "Perhaps there are. I know not. But none should begrudge Lord Boromir his happiness, nor you yours. So," she finished with a squeeze, "if any fifth circle dilettante tries to beat you over the head with her fan, whistle for the First Company, like this:" The trill descended the scale, with the last note falling into silence.

I tried it, thinking of a tune that I could make it into, and then jumped at a hand on my shoulder. It was Morwen.

She fell into step between us, though there was not room for three to walk abreast on the wall-top without a considerable amount of jostling. I waited to see if she would speak and, when she did not, asked "When does my lord Denethor dine of a night?" since I thought she might know better than Silmarien.

Morwen shrugged. "At perhaps eight of the clock. You are to attend him at sunset, though. So I was sent to tell you."

Looking at the sun's position, I guessed I had perhaps an hour. "Do you know why he requires me, for I had I thought I was only to wait on him at table?"

Again I received that fluid, Parisian shrug. "I do not claim to know my lord's mind. Mayhap he wishes to hear more of Lord Boromir, or simply seeks entertainment. Can you sing?"

Taken aback, I took a moment to answer. "I cannot sing, but I can play the flute," I admitted. "Would that please him, do you think?"

Silmarien nodded and Morwen said, "I think it would. And it would please us if you were to come and play for us of an evening in the barracks. We have little music nowadays."

"I will do that," I promised, feeling pleased.

Catching the cadence of their step, I strode out with them. It seemed longer than an hour that we walked, as they told me of Boromir and his exploits from a perspective I'd not heard before, and I told them about my travels with the Fellowship and after.

All too soon the sun dipped behind the mountains, and I took my leave with a promise to return, if my lord permitted, tomorrow. I had already turned to go when a question I'd meant to asked popped into my head again.

I caught up to the two women again, and they turned, inquiring looks on both their faces. "I must ask, and I had forgotten: is my Lord Faramir within the City?"

Identical headshakes and Morwen answered. "He is still in Ithilien, I believe, my lady. He does not often return to Minas Tirith."

I nodded. "I know. I only wondered. Thank you." With a salute, I left them, my heart sinking with the sun. I returned to my quarters, washed, rebraided my hair, left Celetirmar in favor of shoving my flute into my belt, and trotted up to the Citadel.

The guards admitted me without comment, and I once again took a knee before the lower throne, the Steward's chair. After a moment, Denethor bade me rise, that he might survey me. I tried not to quail under the wolf-gray gaze that seemed to bore through me, mail and all.

"Well, daughter. You look a true soldier of Gondor." Somehow the acknowledgement wasn't a compliment from those lips as it had been from Dorion's.

I gritted my teeth, but managed a polite reply. "Thank you, my lord. In such capacity have I come to serve."

Brushing this lead off, the Steward remarked upon my flute, which I of course offered to play for him. My preliminary twiddles pleased him, and he bade me come and stand by his chair. Nervously, I did so, but when the silver mouthpiece slipped beneath my lips once more, I relaxed. I did not inquire as to what he wished to hear, but played everything: all the music that had been bottled up inside me since Amon Hen.

Tunes spiraled from my head until I once again felt like Firiel, not someone's expectations of me, not daughter-in-law or wife or betrothed or rival, simply me. For a finale, I trolled out Boromir's marching song from the River. I thought it would please his father, if he recognized it.

He did recognize it. His head sunk upon his chest, his hands convulsing around the split Horn that still lay in his lap. But he did not stop me, and he did not speak until I had finished, and even then it was only to summon servants to lay a table for the evening meal.

He did not invite me to eat with him, only motioned me to resume playing. I did not perform any more Gondorian melodies, though, only light airs, and ignored Denethor's consumption-or lack thereof-of lamb and greens and wine. He offered me the same disregard, dismissing me late into the night with no word as to whether or not I had pleased him.

I did not care. Delirious with happiness, I do not recall quite how I found my room, only that when I did, I fell quickly into a deep, sound sleep untroubled by dreams. I had made music, and that was enough to lighten even Minas Tirith's darkness.


	38. Finding a Place

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Finding a Place

I woke at dawn, a bad habit from too many nights in the wild that I'd not yet managed to shake it. I groaned as I sat up, longing for the few more hours of sleep that my internal clock would not permit me. Muscles in my shoulders and back creaked as I stretched, and my collarbone felt shattered into three pieces. A day of chainmail had not agreed with my body.

I dressed, even in the hated mail, but left my hair in two long plaits, as it was agony to raise my hands above my head. Feeling like a green recruit, I went in search of breakfast, but no sooner had I reached the bottom of the stairs than a servant poked his head in the door. He bore an urgent summons from the Lord Denethor. Sighing, but grateful that at least my legs did not ache, I jogged up to the Citadel once more, wondering what the Steward wanted.

He glowered at me from the black seat as I made my obeisance, and began without preamble: "Word has reached me of your activities yesterday."

Oh Valar, what had I done? Eaten lunch, toasted Boromir, sparred with Ortaine, and- Oh. Ortaine. "My lord, if you will give me leave to explain-"

"I care not for your explanations, only for your actions, and those I know full well."

Denethor's cold wrath was like angry Boromir, squared. I opened my mouth, only to have him cut me off again. "Have you not sworn to speak 'and' to be silent?" I did not need to nod. "Now I would have your silence. You have disgraced the House of him you say you loved!"

I kept my mouth shut. By dint of great force of will, I kept my mouth shut, knelt there, and took it. Self-control did not keep me from thinking at him though, and this I did furiously: 'Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love!'

"No daughter of mine would conduct herself in this unseemly manner. Fraternizing with the common soldiery! Assuming their duties and dress! Deigning to cross arms with them! Are these the actions of a daughter of a House as noble as any in the West? They are not!"

'No,' I thought, 'but they are my actions.' "Was not Boromir beloved of his men for doing just as I have done, my lord?" I tried to keep my voice level, though a white-hot rage had begun to build behind my eyes.

The Steward leaned forward, his gaze as cold and penetrating as an icy dagger. "You are not Boromir. You are not my son, nor my daughter." He had yet to raise his voice, which made his words all the more terrifying. I began to shake silently, though more from suppressed anger than fear.

He was not done. "Get you hence. If you would serve with the Hosts, so be it. Dwell with them, march with them, 'die' with them, for you are no kin of mine, and I care not."

The Steward flicked his fingers at me, as if to dismiss a servant. I stood and made him a final bow, though my fists remained clenched at my sides. I walked backwards all the way out of the hall in a mockery of deference, and then turned and ran.

Pelting through the streets as across the plains of Rohan, my thoughts a roil of confusion, kept me from doing something foolish, like casting myself from the ramparts or denouncing the Steward from the Tower of Ecthelion. It did not, however, answer any of my questions.

If Lord Denethor had taken offense to my activities of yesterday afternoon, why had he not dismissed me last night? Had he not praised my uniform, and even ordered it sent to me himself? Had he not also approved of my desire to serve Gondor and, in an unprecedented action, taken me as his esquire so I could do so? Many questions and no answers.

I cleared all my belongings from my room and with my pack on my back, Celetirmar in my hand, and a leaden heart somewhere in the pit of my stomach, loped down to the fifth level. I could get into neither the barracks nor the mess hall of the First Company because of the black-clad throng in the street. Fighting my way through the press of soldiers, who must have just finished breakfast and now be readying themselves for duty, I searched for Morwen or Silmarien, prepared to yell for them if necessary.

As it was, someone yelled for me. The first "Oy, you!" passed over my head, but as the second was shouted into my ear, I could not very well continue to believe that the summons had not been directed at me. I turned to meet the scowling visage of a soldier at least three inches shorter and two times wider than myself.

The Gondorian equivalent of a drill sergeant, he proceeded to inquire in very pretty language why I wasn't in the jostling line of soldiers behind him. I had no answer for this, of course, so he ordered me into place and led us off jogging. 'He doesn't know who I am,' I thought, trying to find the pace. 'He hasn't gotten the memo yet that I'm Lord Boromir's widow, to be treated like a china doll.' A thrill of mischief at being incognito chased up my spine, and I almost giggled.

Forced quickmarch through the streets of Minas Tirith was nothing compared to running across Rohan with a wounded leg. My shoulders and back still ached from the mail, but my legs were whole and sound, and there were cobbles beneath my boots. I put my head down and worked my stride into the cadence of those before me.

Down we went to the Great Gates and then up to the practice courts on the third circle. Once there, the sergeant, who was actually a Master-at-Arms called Aran, divided his panting and winded charges into pairs and set us to sparring. He moved around, correcting grip and stance, but mostly remained on the sidelines, watching shrewdly and rubbing his grizzled chin.

I found myself opposite a swarthy young man perhaps five years my senior. He was a solid fighter, by-the-book, and not afraid to strike at a girl. Not that many of his blows landed, but at least he gave as good as he got. It was clear that he did not recognize me, and I did not remember him from the mess hall after Boromir's toast. We fell into an easy rhythm, hafts thwacking in time. The exertion helped to release some of the turmoil and frustration inside me, for which I was grateful.

After we had sparred for a time the Master-at-Arms deemed adequate, he organized us into orderly rows for calisthenics. 'Lovely,' I thought, 'pushups in chainmail.' But one who must, can, and I did. The spear-work had been a good warm-up, and I found that my arms could bear the exercise. Although it had been an age since I'd done pushups in the morning, I was not as though I'd gone out of training. Once again, I found a rhythm and then took myself away.

I wondered what Èowyn was doing, and whether she had found her glory in battle. What would she have to say about my predicament? She would probably point out that the First Company offered me more opportunity for valor than being the Steward's esquire did, and in any case, I had fulfilled my oath. I wished she had come with me. The Lady of Rohan could probably do pushups with the best of them, and she would know how to deal with Lord Denethor.

I stifled a laugh at the thought of Èowyn doing pushups, and looked around to see if anyone else had heard. In all likelihood, they had, because every soldier had stopped to stare at me. Aran and Silmarien stood on either side of me, staring as well. Oh dear. Had I been clapping between pushups?

Silmarien dropped into a squat beside me. "My lady, what are you doing?"

"Um. . . ." 'So I had been clapping.' "Am I doing something wrong?"

She shoved a hand back through her hair, making it stand up in soft dun spikes. "I know not, but I shudder to think what the lord Steward would have to say about it."

I shuddered to think, too, and then I remembered that he didn't care. "The lord Steward has dismissed me from his service and told me that if I wish to serve with the Hosts, I may do so."

Taken aback by this, Silmarien still managed to rally. She scowled around at the others and spoke in a husky whisper. "My lady, even if this is so, you do not belong here among these postulants. Your place in the First Company is assured."

I raised my eyebrows at her. "Oh, indeed? Must I not prove myself with the rest?"

Silmarien gritted her teeth. "You have proven yourself in service to Lord Boromir. That is enough, whatever you may think. Will you not come with me now? We have need still of watches on the ramparts." She held out a hand.

I took it, and let her pull me to my feet, though my sensibilities and upper body protested. The Master-at-Arms had dismissed the men around us, and in the throng we slipped away.

"I have no wish to be a mascot, a symbol to the First Company, "I said to Silmarien as we marched down to the next level. "I can fight and ride, and I wish to be useful." I would much rather be useful to the First Company than to Lord Denethor. At least they wanted me.

Silmarien took a moment to answer. "Have you ever thought, my lady, that a symbol may do more in battle than a single woman fighting? For men will rally to a symbol, and be given new strength and hope." She stared unseeing out at the Pelennor, looking past it to I knew not what.

I stood beside her, also thinking. "Boromir was both, wasn't he?"

"Lord Boromir was both," Silmarien confirmed. "A warrior and a symbol, and more than either."

We stood together there for a long time, looking to Osgiliath and wishing for one to return who never would. Then Silmarien squeezed my shoulder. "Oaths matter most when it is hardest to keep them. Come now." I came, and marched beside her.

Noon meal consisted of bread and cheese from Silmarien's pocket, eaten on the ramparts. It was a short respite, so by the time the sun dipped behind the jut of the mountain the parts of my body that did not ache gently hurt actively. Silmarien and I straggled into the mess hall and commandeered the last seats and food. Once again, I put my head down and ate. I do not know what I would have done had anyone tried to toast me, but, fortunately, no one did.

Those not assigned to night watch went directly from the mess hall to the barracks next door. The crowd having pulled me along, I stood inside the door, pack and spear in hand, feeling lost and wondering where I should go.

A row of cots lined each wall, with shelves at their heads and chests at their feet. The beds faced each other, with an aisle between. Decoration was sparse, but the place was clean, if a little smoky from braziers and wall sconces, and I could see small touches of humanity here and there. Battle scenes and painted designs decorated many of the chests, and a few soldiers had replaced their regulation gray blankets with bright patchwork quilts. It was almost homey, as much as a barracks could be.

Aware that the men who filled the room around me would soon be undressing for bed, I looked around desperately for Silmarien, whom I had lost, or Morwen, even Ortaine, any bastion of femininity that I might cling to. Fortunately, Silmarien had not lost me. She appeared at my shoulder, saying, "Morwen has said she will give up her quarters to you, my lady, to give you a bit of privacy."

I turned, wanting to shake her. "Silmarien, if I am to be a symbol, I shall at least be a symbol who sleeps with-" I cleared my throat. "-where the men do." Ignoring the fact that I had completely reversed my position, to screams of "Shut up! Shut up!" from my brain, I glared her down.

"It is unseemly, my lady," she protested.

I rolled my eyes, squashing my sensibility's cries of protest. "Oh? Has Morwen always had her own quarters, and where do you and Ortaine bunk now?" Did I need to remind her of my days in the wild with the Fellowship, all of whom were, gasp and cringe, male? Had she spent so much time dressed as a male that she had picked up chauvinism?

Silmarien's protests were few and ineffectual, and I could see something like respect in her eyes once more. "If there is an empty bed here, then I will take it, and if there is not, then I shall sleep on the floor." I hoped it would not come to this, as sore body plus had boards had never equaled sleep, in my experience.

I had beaten her down, though, and she led me to an unoccupied bunk, where I stowed my things in the chest and set Celetirmar beside it. I doffed my tunic and mail shirt, shook them out and folded them carefully away, then burrowed under the covers to change my shirt. All this Silmarien watched with the air of a doubtful guard dog, but when I retrieved my flute, she smiled and, leaning against the wall to watch me, unsheathed her sword and began to polish it.

The instrument was to my lips before I had thought of something to play, but Silmarien and several others had begun to give me expectant looks, so I began the first thing that came to mind: Boromir's marching song. By the second verse, a dozen more nonchalant figures had made their way over to my bunk, and three of these were singing along. Three more verses, and I finished to a smattering of applause.

As the clapping died away, an appallingly young boy pushed his way forward. "Do you know 'Harvest Time Has Come'?"

I did not, of course, but the stifled laughs and mutters of 'provincial' made me grin at him and say, "If you will sing it for me, I think I may be able to catch the tune."

He grinned back at me, and sang. The reedy tenor was none too true, but it was a simple melody. My playing seemed to please him to no end. It certainly shut up the disparaging voices.

After a couple of Irish reels, I had another request. At Morwen's entrance, everyone had straightened but remained comfortable, but they perked up still further when her sweet alto broke into a song I later learned was called 'Men of Harlond'. Everyone joined in, more or less harmoniously, and I soon added my own descant.

A harp and drum soon joined my flute, also played by ear, and for an orchestra that had never practiced together, I thought we made surprisingly sweet music. The First Company seemed to agree. Songs that I did not know the other two musicians did, and I taught them 'The Water Is Wide' and 'The Sound of Sleat'. The First Company also liked to sing along, which I discovered after I'd admitted there were words to the former tune. After a great deal of friendly bullying from all present, I sang; no one commented on my voice, for which I was grateful.

The sky outside was fully dark and brightly spangled with stars, and the lamps had been lit. I had lost track of the songs I'd played. After a particularly merry jig that Pippin had taught me, I put down my pipe, breathing heavily but grinning from ear to ear. Someone pressed a cup of ale into my hand, and, as I sipped it, I looked out over my audience. They were seated on every free chest and chair, some on the floor, some standing, all of them happy to various degrees. I would much rather play for the First Company than for Lord Denethor, I thought. Their tastes ran to martial airs and marching songs, but they could also soften to a ballad. It was like and yet unlike tuning for the Fellowship on the Great River, so very long ago.

I had just turned my mind to what I might do next, whether I might be able to call it a night, when a figure I had not noticed stepped from the shadows to stand before me. It was Ortaine.

"I would have you play me a song," she said, and as she named it, she met my eyes in challenge. "If you know it."

I did know it, oddly enough. In Lothlorien, I had heard Boromir humming the tune, and had asked him what it was. He had told me and, after much cajoling, sung the ballad for me. The lyrics told of a man who must leave on a long journey, as he farewells a woman whose love he cannot return because his heart is promised to another.

I swallowed hard, kept my eyes on hers, and took up my flute once more. As I began the melody, a gruff baritone whom I could not see began the poignant words. I do not know if I imagined the voice's resemblance to Boromir's, but I think I may be forgiven for doing so if I did. My eyes remained locked on Ortaine's throughout, and by the time the unseen singer and I finished, her gaze was not hard, only sad. Something had passed between us, an understanding or forgiveness, a nameless, intangible knowing that told me I could trust her, and that she did not hate me.

It was a good ending to an otherwise tiring and confusing day, and afterwards everyone blew out the lamps and took themselves to bed. Though sleeping indoors was still a phenomenon, and I was surrounded by strange men, I slept soundly, knowing I was safe and welcome. I dreamed of my mother, and of music.

Ortaine's ballad can be found here: ,and can be sung to the tune of 'Roads Go Ever Ever On', from the animated version of _The Return of the King_.


	39. Not So Old Friends

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Not So Old Friends

At dawn the next day the White Wizard returned to Minas Tirith.

I saw him gallop in from the South, the cloaked rider and the great gray stallion unmistakable, even from the second level. By squinting, I could see that Shadowfax bore another passenger, set before the wizard and nearly covered by his cloak. Large, hairy feet peeked out, though, so it must be Merry or Pippin.

A cry of "Mithrandir, Mithrandir!" rose up from the Great Gate and suddenly I was yelling too, and waving Celetirmar. Nonplussed, Silmarien stared at me as I turned to grin at her. She was not a morning person, and I think my outburst had startled her.

It had startled me, as well. My feelings for the wizard were indifferent at best, and I had not been longing for hobbit company, but I suppose what I 'had' been desperate for was a familiar face, a member of the Fellowship, and news.

I gathered myself to go find them, but Silmarien grabbed my sleeve. "Hold. Duty cannot be thrown aside so lightly, even for old friends."

Stopping up short, I turned to her. "May I not go and greet them? I will return in a little while."

In her eyes, I saw kindness war with duty and duty win. She shook her head. "Morwen assigned you here until the noon hour, and here you must stay. But if you will wait a little, I think they will pass along this way."

I subsided and resumed proceeding with her, though I am sure I watched the street much more than I did anything below the City. The ten minutes it took Shadowfax to prance into sight were agony. Mithrandir sat proudly on his back, and before the wizard perched- "Pippin!"

The hobbit looked wildly around as I scrambled down to meet them. What he must have thought as an apparently mad Gondorian soldier ran up to him, I do not know, but as I neared them, he did recognize me. A caress for Shadowfax and a nod for Mithrandir, and I had Pippin off the horse and was spinning around as we clutched each other.

I had learned long ago that hobbits like to hug things, and this one was no exception He seemed to have grown a bit since the last time I'd seen him, doing battle that day on Amon Hen, but he was still Pippin. "Firiel!" he almost squeaked into my hair before I set him down to preserve both our dignities.

"We thought you taken and slain," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Both you and Merry. When we met Mithrandir in the wood, he told us you were safe, but still it is a joy to see you." Pippin beamed up at me as I beamed down at him.

Looking up at Mithrandir, I asked, "How went the battle at Helm's Deep?"

I did not like the smile that hid behind the wizard's eyes as he answered. "The Rohirrim triumphed, though at the cost of many lives."

"And how fares my lord Aragorn?"

The smile turned to a glare. "Speak not that name in this place. He was well when last I saw him, and Legolas and Gimli, also."

I started plotting my revenge upon the man who would be king, asking innocently, "He does not ride with you, then?"

"He rides now with Théoden King, though the Lady's words weigh heavily on his heart, and I think he will soon act upon them."

I remembered Galadriel's cryptic message about the Rangers and the path to the sea, and my heart hardened a little more toward Aragorn. "Then he does not mean to ride to Minas Tirith?"

"That I cannot say," the wizard said, though I thought he could have. His eyes drifted past me.

I looked over my shoulder to see Silmarien, and rolled my eyes, jerking my head back toward the ramparts, hoping she would take the hint and leave. She remained maddeningly steadfast.

Irritated, I turned to speak directly to Pippin. "I wish you well in your audience with my lord Denethor. When I come off duty at noon, you must find me, or I will find you. And no doubt some luncheon will be involved."

This drew a grin from the hobbit, and he nodded. I cupped my hands to help him clamber back onto Shadowfax, and with a final skeptical look from Mithrandir, they trotted off.

"You would do well not to be seen speaking to Mithrandir," Silmarien began as we turned back to the walltop,"if you wish to remain in my lord Steward's favor."

I shot her a disbelieving look and tried to keep pace with her brisk stride. "His favor? I've lost that already, I think." After checking for eavesdroppers, I related the events and words of yesterday morning.

When I finished, she shook her head, gracing the stones with a few coarse expressions, but could only stare at me.

"So you see what I mean when I say I can no longer claim his favor?" I pressed, looking away from her.

"My lady, those who fall from grace in the Lord Denethor's eyes enjoy the hospitality of Minas Tirith's dungeons, not her barracks. No, I think you bear the favor of one far greater and higher, though I am at a loss to name him."

'I'm not,' I thought, but kept my mouth shut as Silmarien changed her tactics. "My lord Boromir was no friend of the wizard's."

"I know," I said, gritting my teeth. "I am not so fond of him, either, but he sees everything." Galadriel had said he watched the movements of Middle-Earth like a man might watch the tides of the ocean. "I am so hungry for news; news of my friends and of what moves in Rohan. And of war, for war is coming."

"As are we all, my lady, as are we all." I suppose she felt the need to placate me, for I had nearly weaned her off using the title. "But the little fellow, he is one of your company?"

I grinned. "He is, though he would not thank you for calling him little. He is a hobbit, or halfling, and he is older than I am." 'The two youngest members of the Fellowship, and the oldest, together in the White City,' I thought. It could not be coincidence, but I wondered what we could do.

"The halfling from Lord Boromir's riddle?" Silmarien wanted to know.

I stared at her, though by now I had no reason to be amazed at the way news, especially secrets, traveled in the White City, and tried to think of a reply that did not involve Frodo or the Ring. "No, his kinsman. Pippin's father is a great, er, man in the Shire, which is the hobbit's country. It is far away in the north, and I have never been there. Pippin will tell you all you want to know and more besides, if you ask him, for only eating and smoking are dearer to hobbit hearts than talking, especially about their families. But yes, he is my friend, and was Boromir's." 'And I would be grateful if you'd let me off guard duty to go and speak to him,' I did not add, only watched the wagons that bore the last women away from the White City.

Silmarien let me go, and without even making me ask leave in mess. Morwen did find me as I sneaked out and told me that Pippin had taken up with a guardsman of the Third Company, so I might try their mess first, since the Company had duty until sundown. I nodded and thanked her, a bit miffed that Pippin had not been squired about Minas Tirith by a member of the First and best Company, preferably me.

The Third messed before we did, so snooping about their barracks proved fruitless. I did not think I should go anywhere near the Citadel, where Mithrandir and Pippin's guest rooms probably were, in case the Guard had special instructions from the Steward concerning my health, education, and welfare. I did go up to the sixth level, in case Pippin was paying Shadowfax a visit, and there I found them, the tiny, travel-strained figure holding up a lump of sugar to the great gray mearas.

"Hallo, Pip," I said, as Merry used to, slipping inside.

He looked up. "Oh, hallo, Firiel."

"Did you get enough luncheon?" I wondered what a hobbit had thought of the food in Minas Tirith.

"Nearly. I don't think they're used to feeding hobbits in Gondor. I don't know what we'd have done if Merry had come too." His face fell as he said the name, which puzzled me.

"Pippin," I asked, giving Simbelmynë a final caress, "where is Merry? Why didn't he come with you?" I couldn't think of a time I'd seen the two of them separated.

"Er," Pippin began, not looking at me as we went out, "he stayed with Aragorn in Rohan. Gandalf only brought me because- Oh, Firiel, I've been so awfully stupid!" And everything came out in a torrent of story and elliptical phrases, as only a hobbit could tell a tale, from the Orcs on Amon Hen to Fangorn to the Stone of Orthanc and the audience with the Steward that morning. "And now I'm in a bigger mess than ever," he finished, blinking up at me. "I've sworn an oath, and there's going to be a war."

I shut the stable door behind us. "I wish you better luck as the lord Denethor's esquire than I had, though maybe your service will be more to his taste than mine was." And, with a deep breath and as much circumspection as I could manage, I filled Pippin in on the bits of my story that he likely had not heard from Aragorn. The story was not much, and it did not sound great and adventurous to me, because I had been there and knew the truth. But I 'had' been there, and it was my truth.

Pippin listened intently as we ambled down through Minas Tirith, moving slowly in the muggy heat. My layers of mail and cloth threatened to smother me, and my hair, braided in a thick knot on my neck, weighed as much as a helmet.

People stared as we walked past, making us bows and salutes. I think Pippin most intrigued them, a legendary Prince of Halflings, as they had decided to call him, but I heard a few murmurs of "my lady". If either of us had had the energy to fidget, I think we would have. Had Boromir had to endure this when he strolled through his city? Had it made him nervous? I did not think so.

In the shade of the gate arch leading from the second level to the first, we stopped to buy mugs of cool, sweet tea from a vendor, and I thought to ask Pippin where we were going.

"Beregond, a man of the Third Company who was very kind to me this morning, said that his son stayed here in the Old Guesthouse, and that I might seek him out if I wished for company or a guide about the city." The hobbit looked about, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue protruding slightly from the corner of his mouth as he thought.

Slightly hurt, I opened my mouth to ask if I was not guide and company enough, but the affront seemed to occur to Pippin at the same time. He turned to me, his face falling. "We do not have to, of course."

I forced a smile. "No, it was a good idea." 'Petty,' I thought, 'petty and selfish, Firiel.' But I hate small children, have always thought they should be locked up and not let out until they can make intelligent conversation. I especially detest little boys of about ten or twelve who will strut about a playground hitting each other and playing King of the Rock. Perhaps he would be older. Perhaps a child raised in Gondor during wartime would be more mature. Perhaps.

Rath Celerdain led up to the Great Gate, but before reaching it, we came to the pillared gray façade of the Old Guesthouse. Boys played on the lawn between the building's two wings, and a few of them broke off and came to meet us in the street as we approached. The leader hailed Pippin and challenged him as a stranger, wanting to know his name.

The boy's entire demeanor changed, though, when I came up behind the hobbit. Morwen had not told me the exact rank indicated by the cables pinned to my tunic, and Silmarien would not, but upon seeing them, the boy made me a salute and dipped his head a bit grudgingly, possibly because he had also seen that I was female.

Before I could come up with a suitably imperious command, Pippin answered the kid's question, saying that he was a man of Gondor. "Come now," the lad scoffed, "if that is so, then we are all, ah, all of us are…" he trailed off.

I looked down my nose at the little squirt. "Is this the way you greet the esquire of the Lord Denethor? We seek the son of Beregond of the Third Company. If you are not he, then go and fetch him for us."

"I am Bergil, Beregond's son," the boy replied, thrusting his skinny chest out and trying to stand taller. "Do you bring me news from him?" His face fell suddenly. "Do not say that he has changed his mind, and that I am to be sent away with the women after all!"

Having fun, and on something of a roll, I went on, "Even were it so, your place is not to question the will of your lord and father. But no, we have been sent to seeking a guide about the city, for both Master Took and I are newcomers to Minas Tirith."

This was the wrong bone to throw the kid, who immediately resumed his superior attitude, now with overtones of tour guide. "Come, then. We shall go to the Gate." He and Pippin led the way, chattering on while I trooped behind, tugging at my clothes and wishing for air conditioning.

Apparently, the lords of Gondor's outlying provinces were due to arrive at any minute, and so the three of us joined the crowd headed to see them march in. Bergil and Pippin were getting along like a house on fire, conversation interrupted only when I prompted the latter to give the password at the Great Gate, deeply impressing the former.

Once outside, we took up our positions with the others in the great stone courtyard, straining to see southward along the road. My small companions fairly bounced with excitement, and while I was also concerned with the reinforcements, what weighed most headily on my mind—and shoulders—was the awful chainmail. While Pippin and Bergil pushed to the front of the throng to see the approaching dust cloud, I tried to scratch surreptitiously and let some air into the sweat-soaked layers of my uniform. Boromir had lived in his mail. How had he managed it?

Around me a great cheer rose up: "Forlong! Forlong has come!" and with it horns sounding and the rhythm of marching feet I tried to remember if Forlong ruled Lossarnach or Lamedon. Lossarnach, I thought, remembering Boromir's description of him as Forlong the Fat, though he was not so much fat as simply huge, wide-shouldered and barrel-chested, like Henry the Eighth. I expected him to toss a chicken leg over his shoulder at any minute, though he carried a spear larger than my own. Behind his horse marched ranks of armored men, bearing battleaxes. I tried to count them; there were about two hundred.

The convoy from Lossarnach was only the first of many that afternoon. Three hundred strong of infantry came from Ringló Vale, and five hundred bowmen from the Blackroot Vale. Behind them straggled hunters and fishermen from I was not sure where, looking nothing like soldiers except for their expressions of grim determination, and three hundred men in the green of Pinnath Gelin.

Boromir had mentioned his uncle, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and the elite Swan Knights he commanded, and I suppose some part of me had been expecting them to come to Minas Tirith's aid, but the battalion of horsemen in gleaming armor took my breath anyway. They sang as they rode, and carried banners embroidered with ships and swans, like Crusaders, with foot soldiers behind.

The glittering cavalcade lifted all of our spirits, even distracting me from my mail problems, but I, like others, had been doing the math. Less that three thousand men had come: not enough. Not nearly enough. And no more would come.

Evening hung heavy around us, as if the sun did not want to set but was being dragged down. It lit Mount Mindolluin, thought the city was shadowed. I walked back in with Pippin and Bergil, all of us subdued, as the trumpet sounded for the closing of the gate. Leaving Bergil at the Guesthouse, we hurried upwards, not speaking, to our separate messes.

I was late, so, dusty and sticky, I scarfed down what was left, allowed Silmarien to show me to the women's bathhouse, and, finally clean, fell into bed. Not even my neighbors' snores could keep me from sleep, though I dreamed despairing dreams that I could not remember in the morning.


End file.
